The Silence of Murder (19 page)

A few minutes before six, I can’t wait a second longer. I have to call Raymond and tell him about the new evidence.

The phone rings and rings until the answering machine picks up. While I’m waiting for the beep, I try to figure out how to word what I want to say.

But before I can leave my message, Raymond answers. “Hello?”

“Raymond?” The machine finishes telling me to leave a message, then squawks out a beep. “Raymond, I’m sorry if I woke you up.”

“Hope?”

“Yeah. Listen, I have to tell you some stuff, but I don’t want to tell you how I got the information.”

“Just a minute.” He sounds like he’s underwater. I hear the receiver clunk. A minute later Raymond is back. “This better be good, Hope.”

I fill him in as much as I can without telling him about breaking and entering the crime scene and Coach’s office.

“Wait now,” he says. “How did you …? No. Never mind.” His sigh carries over the phone wires. “What does your mother say about the checks?”

“I haven’t asked her yet.” I don’t add that I haven’t had a chance to ask because she’s stayed out all night.

“Well, it might not matter.”

“Are you kidding?” I shout. “Raymond, how could that not matter? Don’t tell me I broke into Coach’s office for nothing!”

“I didn’t hear that,” Raymond says, not shocked or surprised, like he’s already figured out that much. “I don’t know about the checks, Hope. But the other things, the loan apps and the bills, nobody’s said anything about Coach’s finances. Where there’s debt, there’s motive. How many loan refusals were there?”

“I’m not sure. Three or four, at least. T.J. could tell you.”

“T.J.?”

Rats!
I shouldn’t have brought him into it. Such a long silence follows that I’m not sure if Raymond is still on the line. “Raymond?”

“Hmmm? Sorry. I’m thinking.…” More silence. “Okay. I’ll level with you, Hope. Your testimony didn’t help our insanity plea any.”

“I’m sorry, Raymond.” I get a flashback of that second in court when I realized I’d walked right into the prosecution’s trap. Keller looked at me like I’d single-handedly won him his ticket to Washington, D.C., and bigger fish to fry. I can see his nose hair in his left nostril, the bead of sweat on his curled upper lip.

“It’s not just your testimony,” Raymond continues. “My
expert
witness didn’t do much for us either. Insanity is a hard sell around here. People are too practical.”

“Too insane, if you ask me.”

“Could be,” he admits.

“So what do we do?”

“I think I’m starting to agree with you, to tell the truth,” Raymond says.

“Really?” I’m not sure what I expected. Maybe that this was going to be a much harder sell to Raymond. “That’s great!”

Raymond keeps going, and I think he’s talking to himself more than to me. But I don’t mind. “We need to begin creating doubt, give the jury a few reasons to find Jeremy not guilty.” He sighs. “Thank God for the double plea—not guilty by reason of insanity, and not guilty.”

Maybe Raymond is right. Maybe that really is something
to thank God for. I haven’t done much thanking lately. I have a feeling that even in jail, Jeremy isn’t forgetting to thank God. I can almost hear him:
God, thanks for these bars that make cool shadows. And thanks for my roommate, Bubba, and the pretty tattoos on his arms
 … 
and legs, and shoulders, and head
.

“Hope, did you hear me?”

“What?”

“I said, I’m going to issue a subpoena to have Caroline Johnson testify in person. If there’s an objection, the judge will have to rule. We could establish motive. And that’s more than Keller has done with Jeremy. They haven’t even suggested a motive.”

“Yes! Raymond, would it help if you had two people who’ve seen Mrs. Johnson standing on her own and staring out her window?”

“Not if those circumstances would put the two people in prison for breaking and entering.”

“Got it. It will be so great to watch her squirm on the witness stand, though.” Sometime during our conversation, the phone cord got wrapped around my arm. I work on unwrapping it now. “Don’t forget to ask her if she can get out of the wheelchair on her own. And ask about money. And the loans. And those canceled checks to Rita.”

“Easy, Hope,” he interrupts. “I don’t even know if the court will allow this. And if they do, we could be too late. Trial is winding down, whether we want it to or not. My witness list isn’t that long.”

“What about Rita? What about her testimony? Are you still going to make her tell all those stories about Jeremy, the
ones that make him sound crazy?” I hate those stories. Rita tells them to strangers in bars and grocery stores: about the winter Jeremy wandered off without his shoes or coat and ended up with frostbite; about the time he walked up to the screen at the movie theater and punched a hole in it; or the day he grabbed a kid in his stroller and ran and ran until the police stopped him—Jeremy had seen the mother hit the little boy, slap him on the cheek.

“I’ll put Rita on hold and see if we still need her,” Raymond says.

“Great!” I’m glad Rita’s not testifying.

“There are a lot of variables here, Hope. I might not get permission to bring in Mrs. Johnson. And if I do put her on the stand, she may not be a good witness for us.”

“I know. Chase told me she’s not a big fan of my brother.”

“Chase? Chase Wells?”

“Y-yeah.” I shouldn’t have brought him into it either.

“Well, it’s true. Mrs. Johnson did some damage,” Raymond admits.

“Why would she say she was scared of Jeremy? People ignore my brother. They don’t understand him. They’re uneasy around him. But they’re not afraid of him.”

“Maybe she’s not scared of him,” Raymond says. “Maybe she just wants the jury to be scared of him.”

All right, Raymond!
It’s the first time I’ve felt that Raymond believes Jer might be innocent. “You have to get the jury to see through that woman,” I tell him. I think about her dark figure watching T.J. and me leave the barn. “Um … you know those two people who saw her standing at her window?”

“I do. I know one of them rather well.” Raymond’s voice has a little smile to it.

“Well, they saw her tonight.… And I’m pretty sure she saw them too.”

“Hope!”

“Plus, if Mrs. Johnson owns a white pickup truck, or knows somebody who has one, it would explain a lot of things.”

“Do I want to know about this pickup truck?” Raymond asks.

Whether he wants to know or not, I tell him. And I tell him about the phone calls.

“I don’t like this,” Raymond says. I’ve been so afraid he wouldn’t believe me. Instead, I’m pretty sure he sounds … worried. “Have you told anybody about this?”

“I told Sheriff Wells, and he said he’d drive by the house at night, even though I know he didn’t take me seriously.”

“You need to call him, or dial 911, if anything like that happens again. I mean it, Hope. Or call me.”

I like having Raymond worry about me. A giant yawn comes up from nowhere, making me exhale into the phone.

“See if you can get some sleep,” Raymond says. “I need to get going on that petition to the court.”

“Good luck, Raymond.” I yawn again.

Before I can hang up, Raymond shouts, “Hope! You be careful, okay?”

In spite of everything, I feel myself smile. “Thanks, Raymond.”

“The defense would like
to call Andrew Petersen.”

“Andrew Petersen!”

Chase, T.J., and I are in the back row of the courtroom. Raymond said it’s ok for me to be here now that I’ve testified, as long as the prosecutor doesn’t object, which he hasn’t yet, and which is why I’m lying low. On the drive over here, I sat in the front with Chase, leaving nowhere for T.J. except the backseat. Since T.J. didn’t say more than two words to either one of us the whole drive, I figure he doesn’t like riding in the backseat by himself. But I don’t have the energy to make sure everybody’s happy. I have to focus on the trial.

The problem is, I don’t understand how trials work because I slept through most of eighth-grade civics and government classes. Leaning toward Chase, I whisper, “Who’s Petersen and why is Raymond making him testify?”

“Petersen testified for the prosecution and claimed he saw Jeremy twice that morning—once galloping through the fields on that spotted horse.”

“Sugar.”

“Right,” T.J. throws in. “I was here for that part of the prosecution’s case too.”

I watch Petersen stroll across the courtroom. He’s tall, balding, and maybe fifty or sixty years old, wearing glasses and a black suit with a red tie. “So why would Raymond want him testifying again?”

T.J. and Chase exchange weird looks. Then Chase whispers, “Petersen claims he saw Jeremy carrying a bat and running away from the barn.”

I look over at Jeremy. He’s sitting up straight, his gaze on the judge.

I make myself listen to every word of the testimony as Raymond leads Mr. Petersen through the events of his morning, including what he ate for breakfast—instant oatmeal, wheat toast with fake butter, OJ, and coffee. He tells us where he found his morning paper—in the bushes—how loud the neighbors’ dogs are, and when he saw Jeremy. He’s a horrible storyteller, wasting time trying to recall details nobody on earth could care about.

“I’ve called that newspaper office to complain,” he drones, “seven times. Or was it eight? I remember the sixth time clearly because it was after the Fourth of July and those kids down the street were still shooting off their firecrackers. Then I found my newspaper on the roof, saw it right up there when—”

Finally, Raymond retakes control and interrupts the winding, windy trail of Mr. Petersen’s thoughts. “Mr. Petersen, how do you know Jeremy Long, the defendant?”

“Everybody knows the Batter,” he answers. That’s the horrible
name the
Cleveland Plain Dealer
gave to Coach Johnson’s murderer. CNN picked it up.

Raymond moves closer to the jury. “I meant
before
everybody became familiar with the defendant. When did you first come to know Jeremy?”

Petersen’s face wrinkles, and he looks like he’s pouting or about to cry. “I don’t understand.”

“Let me clarify,” Raymond says, smiling. But I’m thinking Raymond may be a better lawyer than he looks. “When did you and the defendant first meet?”

Petersen frowns. “I … I never met him.”

“No?” Raymond looks surprised. “But you’d seen him around? You knew what he looked like? Before the murder?”

“No,” Mr. Petersen admits.

Raymond looks puzzled and turns to the jury for his next question. “Then how did you know that the boy you saw running with a bat was Jeremy Long?”

“I didn’t. Not at first, leastwise.”

“So what you saw was
a
boy running with a bat and
a
boy riding a horse?” Raymond keeps going, leading Petersen on a trail that ends up with the man admitting he didn’t know who Jeremy was until the newspapers told him. And he hadn’t been wearing his glasses.

When Petersen is so confused he’d have trouble identifying himself, Raymond moves in for the kill. “So, you didn’t really know who the boy was running. And you didn’t report this alarming incident because, although you believed the bat was bloody after the papers reported it, at the time you assumed it was a muddy bat. Have I got that right?”

“Yeah. I guess,” Mr. Petersen admits.

Raymond smiles up at the judge. “Then, Your Honor, I have no more questions for this witness.”

Mr. Petersen hurries out of the witness box and out of the courtroom. The whole question-and-answer routine took a lot longer than things take on TV court shows. Twice it looked like Juror Number Seven fell asleep.

But not Jeremy. I could tell my brother was tuned in, listening to the testimony, absorbing it. If Jeremy is focused on something, he’s smart, really smart. It’s just when he loses interest that he drifts into his own, much more fascinating world.

The judge announces a short recess, and when we get back, Raymond calls Bob Adams to the stand. Bob is a few rows up from us, but he glances back as he steps over people to get out of his row. I smile at him, relaxing a little because I know Bob likes Jeremy. That’s why Raymond wanted him to testify about Jeremy’s character. When we first moved to Grain, Bob hired Rita on the spot. When I began standing in for Rita, mostly because she wanted to sleep in or just didn’t feel like working, Bob wasn’t crazy about the idea. But when he saw how hard I worked—a lot harder than Rita—he came around. He came around with Jeremy too.

Bob swears on the Bible to tell the truth, then makes his way to the witness box, where he balances himself on the edge of the wooden seat, like he may need to get away quick. I might not have recognized Bob outside of the restaurant if I’d seen him dressed like this—gray suit, blue tie, leather shoes, and no apron. I try to remember if I’ve ever seen Bob
outside of the Colonial Café, and I don’t think I have. He clears his throat. His hair is slicked back, and he looks as nervous and out of place as a cat in a courtroom full of rocking chairs.

Raymond has Bob identify himself, and then he starts asking Bob about Jeremy.

“I’ve always thought Jeremy was a great kid,” Bob answers. “A little different maybe, squirrelly, you know, what with not talking and all. But nice. Real nice.”

Bob gives examples of nice, like when Jeremy would come by the Colonial and jump right in to help wash dishes for no reason and no money. Or the time Jeremy picked black-eyed Susans and put a glass full of flowers on every table in the Colonial.

I’m thinking Bob’s done a good job talking about my brother. Jeremy comes off as different, just in case we still need the insane version of the plea, but nice and regular too.

Raymond announces that he’s finished with the witness, and Bob starts to get up to leave.

“I have a few questions for the witness,” Prosecutor Keller says from behind his table. He stands and buttons the middle button of his light gray suit.

The judge nods, and Bob sits back down.

Keller is all smiles, which makes me nervous. “Mr. Adams, wasn’t there a time when Jeremy caused some disturbance in your restaurant?”