better. Mrs. Witt's family is here today, obviously supporting her. What more do we need?"
Thomasino waved him down, cradling his hands over his gavel. "Mrs. Witt, your family's presence here is noted, but it doesn't change the law. This is a no bail case."
"Your Honor…" Freeman , one last time.
But Thomasino had had enough. The gavel came up with a judicial glare. He tapped it gently, then intoned, "Bail is denied."
5
In the hallway outside of Department 22 the gypsies had disappeared but there was still the usual hum of voices echoing off the bare walls.
"How can they not let her get bail?" Jennifer's father, Phil DiStephano, was saying. He was in Freeman's face, not exactly belligerent but certainly not cordial.
"We could appeal," Freeman said, "but I warn you, we'll lose. And even if we won, the judge would set an outrageously high bail."
The attractive Mrs. DiStephano spoke up quietly from behind her husband. "How much, Mr. Freeman?"
Phil DiStephano turned on his wife. "It doesn't matter, Nancy. It's out of our league." From appearances, it seemed he was right. Regardless of what bail turned out to be, if in fact they won an appeal, the DiStephanos didn't look like they would be able to pay it.
Phil wore a plain black suit that showed no sign of having been recently pressed, a white shirt, ironed but not new, a thin tie. The mother's clothes, though not the rest of her, reminded Hardy of Pat Nixon during the Checkers Speech. She was attractive enough — still, some might say, even beautiful, like her daughter — but something in her bearing, in the pinch of her lips, conveyed that her life hadn't been easy. The son, perhaps twenty-three, wore jeans, work boots, longish hair, a tucked-in Pendleton, and an attitude.
A working-class family, and it surprised Hardy a little. Jennifer had never been portrayed in the media as anything less than upper class, and in Hardy's interviews yesterday she had come across — even in her prison garb and through her grief — as the comfortably off successful doctor's wife. Her family suggested different roots.
When Freeman went on to tell them they could expect bail of a million dollars, or more, if they got it at all, the son exploded. "Where the fuck she supposed to get that?"
"Tom!"
Freeman held up a calming hand. "Exactly, son. The point is they don't want her to get out. They think she'll take a long walk and disappear."
"I don't think she will. She has a very solid defense." The man who belonged to the new voice moved forward, hand out to Freeman. "Ken Lightner." As though the name explained something. He added, "I'm Jennifer's psychiatrist."
It was the other man Hardy had noticed in the gallery. Reasonably good-looking, somewhat burly even in his tailored suit, Lightner sported a well-trimmed red beard under a head of dark brown hair. It was a striking combination that Hardy thought might come out of a bottle.
"What's Jenny need a shrink for?" Tom DiStephano said.
Nancy DiStephano put a hand on her son's arm as Lightner stepped in. "You must be Tom."
"No. I'm the Queen of England."
She stepped between them. "Don't be rude, Tom."
Hardy wondered if Tom DiStephano was in enough control of himself to be anything — even rude — on purpose. Whatever the source of his anger, it was pretty clearly eating him up. He looked about, around the hallway, as though searching for an exit, an escape. His mother still held onto his arm, but he shook it off and turned to Hardy. "Are you guys trying to get her off as crazy? Is that the deal? You think she's crazy?"
"No, not at all." Lightner seemed to be striving for an understanding tone, trying to include everybody.
But this was Freeman's show and he was not about to hand the lead away. "We haven't decided on a defense," he said. "Jennifer is innocent until she's proved guilty. I trust we're all in agreement here?"
It was a multi-layered
Thomasino waved him down, cradling his hands over his gavel. "Mrs. Witt, your family's presence here is noted, but it doesn't change the law. This is a no bail case."
"Your Honor…" Freeman , one last time.
But Thomasino had had enough. The gavel came up with a judicial glare. He tapped it gently, then intoned, "Bail is denied."
5
In the hallway outside of Department 22 the gypsies had disappeared but there was still the usual hum of voices echoing off the bare walls.
"How can they not let her get bail?" Jennifer's father, Phil DiStephano, was saying. He was in Freeman's face, not exactly belligerent but certainly not cordial.
"We could appeal," Freeman said, "but I warn you, we'll lose. And even if we won, the judge would set an outrageously high bail."
The attractive Mrs. DiStephano spoke up quietly from behind her husband. "How much, Mr. Freeman?"
Phil DiStephano turned on his wife. "It doesn't matter, Nancy. It's out of our league." From appearances, it seemed he was right. Regardless of what bail turned out to be, if in fact they won an appeal, the DiStephanos didn't look like they would be able to pay it.
Phil wore a plain black suit that showed no sign of having been recently pressed, a white shirt, ironed but not new, a thin tie. The mother's clothes, though not the rest of her, reminded Hardy of Pat Nixon during the Checkers Speech. She was attractive enough — still, some might say, even beautiful, like her daughter — but something in her bearing, in the pinch of her lips, conveyed that her life hadn't been easy. The son, perhaps twenty-three, wore jeans, work boots, longish hair, a tucked-in Pendleton, and an attitude.
A working-class family, and it surprised Hardy a little. Jennifer had never been portrayed in the media as anything less than upper class, and in Hardy's interviews yesterday she had come across — even in her prison garb and through her grief — as the comfortably off successful doctor's wife. Her family suggested different roots.
When Freeman went on to tell them they could expect bail of a million dollars, or more, if they got it at all, the son exploded. "Where the fuck she supposed to get that?"
"Tom!"
Freeman held up a calming hand. "Exactly, son. The point is they don't want her to get out. They think she'll take a long walk and disappear."
"I don't think she will. She has a very solid defense." The man who belonged to the new voice moved forward, hand out to Freeman. "Ken Lightner." As though the name explained something. He added, "I'm Jennifer's psychiatrist."
It was the other man Hardy had noticed in the gallery. Reasonably good-looking, somewhat burly even in his tailored suit, Lightner sported a well-trimmed red beard under a head of dark brown hair. It was a striking combination that Hardy thought might come out of a bottle.
"What's Jenny need a shrink for?" Tom DiStephano said.
Nancy DiStephano put a hand on her son's arm as Lightner stepped in. "You must be Tom."
"No. I'm the Queen of England."
She stepped between them. "Don't be rude, Tom."
Hardy wondered if Tom DiStephano was in enough control of himself to be anything — even rude — on purpose. Whatever the source of his anger, it was pretty clearly eating him up. He looked about, around the hallway, as though searching for an exit, an escape. His mother still held onto his arm, but he shook it off and turned to Hardy. "Are you guys trying to get her off as crazy? Is that the deal? You think she's crazy?"
"No, not at all." Lightner seemed to be striving for an understanding tone, trying to include everybody.
But this was Freeman's show and he was not about to hand the lead away. "We haven't decided on a defense," he said. "Jennifer is innocent until she's proved guilty. I trust we're all in agreement here?"
It was a multi-layered
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