The 13th Juror by John Lescroart Read Free Book Online Page B

your client is Mother Theresa, you get your money up-front."  He seemed very serious.  And it bothered Hardy.

    *     *     *     *     *

    The clerk entered from the front of the courtroom talking with the court reporter.  They started setting up their work areas, organizing, talking in low voices.  In the gallery, what looked to be some of the other attorneys had arrived — Freeman nodded to a few of them.  Non-lawyers, perhaps relatives of defendants or victims, were beginning to straggle in.
    This was Superior Court.  People coming before the judge in this courtroom were not here for traffic tickets.  Hardy left Freeman reading the file and stood, wandering up to the rail that separated the gallery from the principals.
    The prosecutor Dean Powell tapped him on the shoulder.  "I kind of expected you this morning."
    "I thought I mentioned that David Freeman's got this one, Dean.  There he is back there, doing calisthenics."  Freeman was pulling on an ear, studying, oblivious to the world.  "I'm mostly along for the ride."
    "Freeman decide on a defense?"
    "No, but Jennifer has.  It's you r favorite."
    "Not guilty?  No insanity?  Justifiable, even?"
    "Mrs. Witt says she did not do any of it."
    Powell nodded, poker-faced.  But Hardy had the sense that he was delighted.  "Yes, she did," he said.

    *     *     *     *     *

    Judge Oscar Thomasino, short brush-cut hair and swarthy complexion, had a no-nonsense demeanor in the courtroom over which he had presided for ten years.  He had come in this morning with another of the surprises that marked life behind the rail.
    "Before we begin today," he said, "is there someone in this courtroom driving a Green Chevy Lumina license number 1NCV722?"
    An Hispanic male in his mid-twenties raised his hand and stood up in the third row of the gallery.  Thomasino motioned him up through the bar rail.  Reluctantly, the man complied, and the judge frowned down at him.  "Did you happen to notice, sir, the large sign in the space you took outside that read Reserved for Presiding Judge?"
    The young man bobbed and half-turned around, looking to the gallery for support.  "Aw, come on, I'm in trouble now because I took your parking space?"
    "Not precisely," Thomasino said, "although that's part of it.  Your big problem is that the car is stolen."  Thomasino directed the bailiff to take the man into custody.  They would figure out what to do with him upstairs.  The car had been towed to the City lot.
    Hardy was still chuckling about it when they called Jennifer's line — her computer number.  Hardy and Freeman then came through the bar rail.  Dean Powell and a fresh-faced young assistant moved over from the jury box, and Jennifer Witt was brought out to the podium that faced the judge.  Hardy thought that Jennifer, beaten down and deflated, looked very much like a defendant, but the jumpsuit could do that to Cindy Crawford.  He introduced her to Freeman.
    She took in her ragged attorney with something less than enthusiasm — a reaction he was accustomed to.  She made a face at Hardy — this is my lawyer? — then faced the judge.  As in all murder cases, the clerk read out the complete indictment.
    "Jennifer Lee Witt, you are charged by indictment with three felony counts filed herein, to wit, violations of Section 187 of the Penal Code in that you did, in the City and County of San Francisco, State of California, on or about the 31 st day of August, 1993, willfully, unlawfully, and with malice aforethought murder Edward Teller Hollis."  The clerk read the special circumstances, going on to add the charges regarding Larry and Matt Witt.  When he had finished, Thomasino nodded toward the podium and said he assumed by the presence of Messrs. Freeman and Hardy that Jennifer was represented by counsel.  He asked Jennifer how she was going to plead.
    "Not guilty, Your Honor."
    Making a note on his printout, Thomasino looked over his