The Other Side of Dark (17 page)

“I told you, this will be boring,” Markowitz mumbles.

I just shake my head. He doesn’t understand how much I need to see this happen.

“Everything going all right for you?” he asks, so I tell him what Tony had said about Jarrod and drugs.

He doesn’t seem surprised. He just says, “That won’t figure into this case.”

“But it shows what kind of person Jarrod is!”

“The trial will be concerned with whether or not Jarrod Tucker was the person who murdered your mother. Whether or not he’s supplying drugs now has nothing to do with what happened four years ago.”

“You mean, he’s going to just get away with the drugs thing?”

“I didn’t say that. We have a narcotics department. I can pass along what you told me and let them look into it.”

“You should work together.”

He stretches out his long legs. “We do work together.”

“Well, I think—”

I don’t have time to tell him what I think because the woman near the judge’s bench suddenly announces the arrival of the judge, and we all stand. A tall gray-haired man strides in, his black robes billowing around him. He sits down, and everyone in the courtroom sits down too.

A door at the far end of the room opens, and two men dressed in tan uniforms come through. A young man in jeans and what looks like a jogging shirt is between them.

“Who are they?”

“Bailiffs,” Markowitz whispers, “with one of the prisoners.”

“But where’s Jarrod?”

“On the other side of that door is a holding pen, where prisoners are kept until it’s their turn to see the judge or to be taken back to jail.”

One of the prosecuting attorneys quickly goes through charges against the man before the judge. His attorney says something to the judge about the man’s lack of a previous record, and the judge sets bail of $5,000. The attorneys go over to talk to the court clerk. Everyone on the judge’s side of the railing seems to be talking, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. In a few minutes the bailiffs go off with the man, and another one comes in with an elderly woman who looks like a bag lady.

“When will they bring in Jarrod?”

“Be patient. I told you this would be boring.”

Finally the first two bailiffs return. They enter the courtroom with Jarrod walking between them. He’s dressed in a really sharp suit, white shirt, and tie. He looks like a model student here to accept an award. They stop at the right end of the table. The two men who have been sitting there stand and talk to Jarrod. I recognize one of them. He was there at the lineup. Jarrod’s attorney. I can’t hear what they’re saying. They point to a chair between them.

Jarrod’s mother makes a little whimpering noise, and Jarrod shifts to look at her. His lower lip curls downward, and he looks like a spoiled little boy ready to throw a tantrum. I think Jarrod hasn’t noticed me, but before he sits down, he turns and stares at me. One corner of his mouth twists, and he glares with such fierceness I gasp. I get his message. I couldn’t miss it. But I know it as well as he does. Without my testimony there would be little way that Jarrod could be convicted of murder. I know Jarrod would like to kill me if he could only get the chance.

Markowitz seems to know what I’m thinking. He puts a hand on my arm. “Don’t worry about him,” he says. “He’s under guard. There’s no way he could get to you.”

“I’m not afraid,” I whisper. But I am. A little. Even though Jarrod’s back is to me, I keep seeing his pale yellow eyes, surprised and horrified as we face each other in our backyard. And I see the gun.

Maybe I’d be more afraid if I didn’t hate Jarrod so much. Markowitz and Mrs. Latham might think I want to be here because I’m curious. They couldn’t know
about the hatred that burns and hurts and makes me want Jarrod to be punished for what he did.

I can’t quite follow everything that goes on. I do hear Jarrod’s attorney claim that Jarrod has been arrested four times on charges of possession of drugs, he’s been given probation in all cases, and he has no record of violence. The attorney asks that Jarrod be released without bail. I want to jump up and yell at the attorney, but Mrs. Latham is talking to the judge, and the judge gives these little nods as if he were keeping time. I hope he’s agreeing with her.

But suddenly Jarrod flings himself up, twists, and groans. All the people in the court stare at him like openmouthed statues. He shudders and makes a horrible, retching noise, drops facedown on the floor with a loud plop, twitches, and is still.

Jarrod’s mother screams, runs to him, and kneels next to him. “What did you do to him?” she shouts.

The bailiffs have sprung to life. One of them crouches next to Jarrod. The other tries to pull his mother back. The first bailiff calls out to the judge, “He’s out cold, but he’s breathing. It’s not very regular. We’d better get an ambulance.”

The judge has stepped down from the dais and is walking toward Jarrod. “It looked like some kind of seizure.” He looks at Jarrod’s parents. Mr. Tucker has joined his wife and has an arm around her shoulders. “Does he have some kind of medical history we should know about?”

But Mrs. Tucker isn’t coherent. She cries and accuses, and a lot of what she’s saying is muffled against
her husband’s chest. Mr. Tucker looks as though he were going to be the next one to pass out.

“He’s got a good pulse,” the bailiff says.

“Paramedics are on their way,” one of the clerks calls to the judge.

The judge gives a final nod at Jarrod, who lies there without moving, and strides back to the bench, his robes billowing behind him like black sails.

After he’s seated, he states, “When Mr. Tucker has recovered, we’ll set another date for a hearing. For now he’ll be taken to the Ben Taub emergency room and kept under guard.”

A jabber of noise from the hallway bursts through the door with two paramedics. They run to Jarrod and begin their work. Someone in uniform secures the door.

“Let’s go, Stacy. We’re in the way here.” Markowitz pushes out of his seat, and I follow him.

In the hallway we’re met with blinding lights from television cameras. Microphones are shoved in my face. I recognize Brandi Mayer among some other reporters with notepads and tape recorders. They surge at me, asking questions that confuse me.

“Do you still think Jarrod Tucker is the one you saw four years ago?”

“Have you had amnesia?”

“Are you seeing a psychiatrist?”

“How do you feel about those lost four years?”

“How do you feel about Jarrod Tucker?”

I don’t know how to answer. I just want to stand still and scream. But Markowitz fields for me, edging through the crowd, tugging me with him, answering
some of the questions for me, until an elevator arrives and we can escape inside.

“There will be a lot of this,” he says. “Better get used to it.”

I lean against the back of the elevator. “In the beginning I thought you’d just arrest Jarrod, and there would be a trial, and it would be over.”

The elevator doors open, and he quickly leads me down a back hallway to the parking lot and into his car. When we’re out on the street, he finally answers. “There’s a lot more to it than that. There will be a trial, but if the verdict goes against Jarrod, his attorney will automatically appeal it, and you’ll have to testify again. I’ve seen his attorney operate before. Unfortunately he really knows how to badger witnesses. Just be prepared for him—and for the press. They’ll be interested in you and your family until all this is over.”

“My family? But Dad and Donna shouldn’t be a part of this!”

“To the media they are.”

“Why do they ask so many questions?”

“It’s their job.”

“But it’s not fair!”

“Get used to it, Stacy.”

As I climb into the car I glance back at the courthouse. None of this would be happening if Jarrod Tucker were dead. With all my heart I wish he were dead!

Soon after Markowitz has taken me home, Jeff arrives. When I open the door, he says, “Your next-door
neighbor just came out on her porch. Shall we sit out on the porch or ignore her?”

Before I can answer, he says, “Let’s ignore her. It’s hot and I’d like a Coke.” He steps in and closes the door. I hear the latch click as the dead bolt turns.

Maybe I look startled, maybe a little scared because Jeff says, “Have to be careful.”

He leads the way to the kitchen, and I follow him. It occurs to me, as I put the Cokes on the kitchen table and sit opposite Jeff, that I could run over to Mrs. Cooper’s. Or I could tell Jeff what Tony said about him. I don’t do anything but watch Jeff and sip at the icy drink.

Jeff raises his head to take a long swallow from the can, and I watch the muscles work in his throat. I’d like to reach out and touch his throat. I’d like to be close to him, to feel his arms around me. I’d love to have him kiss me. I’ve never felt like this about anyone before. I try to explore my mixed-up feelings, but they don’t make any sense.

Jeff puts down the can and tilts his chair back. “You had a rough time at the courthouse.”

Suddenly I’m cold. “How did you know what happened at the courthouse?”

“It was on the television newscast,” he answers easily.

From where I sit I can see the kitchen clock. “The first newscast won’t be on for half an hour.”

“Must have been on the radio, then,” he says. “I know I heard it someplace.”

Jeff is lying. I can tell. Why would he lie to me?

“I heard that you went to the high school this
morning to talk to the head counselor,” Jeff says, quickly changing the subject. “Did you get things straightened out?”

Carefully I answer, “For the most part. Making up all that work won’t be too bad.”

“I hope you still want a tutor.”

My voice is so low I wonder if he can hear me. “Yes, I do.”

His expression changes. The smile slips, and his eyes become serious. “Tony said you had a lot of questions to ask him.”

I can’t answer. I don’t know what to say.

Jeff leans across the table and takes my left hand. I hope he can’t feel it tremble. “Stacy,” he says, “don’t believe everything Tony might have told you.” His eyes look kind of strange, almost sad, as he adds, “Don’t believe in anybody but yourself.”

The telephone rings, and I snatch it, grateful for the interruption. It’s Brandi. She asks if I’d mind just a couple of questions.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Not now. I—I’m sorry.”

As soon as I hang up, the phone rings again. It’s another reporter—this one calling long distance from a newsmagazine.

“No,” I say. “Not now!”

It rings again, and I just stare at it, shaking my head. “I don’t want to talk to reporters,” I tell Jeff.

“You don’t have to,” Jeff says. He puts a hand on my shoulder. He’s standing very close to me. “Don’t be afraid, Stacy,” he murmurs.

How can I tell him that he’s the one I’m afraid of?

The doorbell chimes insistently.

Jeff is ahead of me as I hurry to the door. He opens it, but Mrs. Cooper twists around him to thrust a steaming loaf of bread at me.

“Take the potholders too!” she exclaims. “The bread is right out of the oven, and I don’t want you to burn your fingers.”

I remember my manners. “Would you like to come in?”

Instead of answering, she smiles at Jeff and says, “I thought I’d just stop by for a visit.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I’m going to my friend Jan’s house for dinner. I’ll be leaving here in a few minutes.”

“I’ve got to go too,” Jeff says. “Lots of homework. See you later.” As he reaches the walk he turns and adds, “Both of you.”

Mrs. Cooper seems greatly relieved. “It’s just as well. I’ve got to get home. Dinner to make, you know.” She smiles lovingly at the loaf of bread I’m holding. “It’s too bad you can’t eat that with your dinner, Stacy.”

“I’ll love it for breakfast,” I answer.

She watches Jeff drive off, then says, “Oh, yes—about that car. It’s all right.”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

“The car I told you I saw driving around and around this neighborhood. I’ve seen it again, but with one thing and another I just didn’t mention it to you, but there it was, and—”

I shouldn’t interrupt, but I can’t stand it. “What about the car, Mrs. Cooper?”

“It’s his,” she says, and looks pleased with herself.

It takes a moment to register. “It was Jeff’s car you saw?”

“Yes,” she says. “So it’s all right. Enjoy the bread.” She’s off on a trot to her own house.

I carry the bread to the kitchen. It’s yeasty and buttery, and I’m hungry, but I’ve got something more important to think about than a loaf of bread. Why
would Jeff—I can’t put the question into words. I’m afraid of the answer.

Our telephone rings again. Automatically I pick up the receiver, and a deep voice begins telling me he’s with one of the Houston television stations, and how do I feel about testifying against Jarrod Tucker?

“What do you mean, how do I feel?” I stammer. “I want to testify!”

“You’re not afraid of him?”

“Jarrod’s in jail.”

“For how long?” the reporter asks. “Even if he goes to trial and gets a life sentence, he can be paroled in twenty years—twelve, if he gets time taken off for good behavior.”

“That can’t be true.”

“It’s true. Check it out. How does your family feel about your decision to testify?”

“I—I don’t know. I don’t want to talk to you anymore!”

The moment I put down the receiver the telephone rings again. I won’t answer. Those reporters will have to give up sooner or later. I don’t want to talk to them. I have to think.

I curl up in Dad’s recliner with an apple, taking big, angry bites out of it as I try to sort things out. What’s happening is like a nightmare, but it’s not something that will go away when I open my eyes. And it’s not like the stories I read and the Saturday-morning cartoons I watched when I was a child. The bad guys aren’t caught and carried away so that the good guys can live happily ever after. Maybe a jury will give Jarrod the death penalty. Maybe it won’t. How long am I going to have to
live with fear of this man who has already robbed so much of my life? And it’s not just me! What is all this going to do to Dad? And to Donna and Dennis and their baby?