The Silence of Murder (23 page)

“And you let him ride your horse, Sugar, isn’t that right?” Raymond asks.

“I did.”

“You must have trusted Jeremy to allow him to handle your horse,” Raymond observes, facing the jury.

“That’s right. I don’t let just anybody ride my horses. A few of the children in town like to visit the horses and would like to ride mine. But horses are sensitive creatures. I can’t just let anybody ride.”

“And yet, you allowed Jeremy Long to ride your horse?” Raymond continues.

“Yes. I knew John would teach Jeremy what he needed to do to get along with my Sugar.”

“John, as in John Johnson, correct?”

“Yes.”

I look over at Jeremy. From where I’m sitting, it doesn’t look like he’s paying much attention to the testimony. He’s swaying, and his fingers are playing something on the table. He could just be listening to his own music inside his
head … or he could be starting to get upset about something.

I see the judge glance his way, but Jer doesn’t see it. Neither does Raymond.

“Mrs. McCray,” Raymond says, “I’m sorry to make you think back to the day of the murder, but I do have a question I need to ask.” She nods and grips the chair with both hands. “When you first saw the body and realized John Johnson had been killed, murdered, even after Jeremy had bumped into you with that bat, was your first thought that Jeremy killed Mr. Johnson?”

“No! Not at all.”

“Were you frightened? Didn’t you fear that Jeremy might come back with his bat and go after you next?” Raymond asks.

“Certainly not! That sweet boy? How could I have had such thoughts?”

I feel like running up to the witness stand and hugging Mrs. McCray. I crane my neck to get a better look at Jeremy. I want to know if he heard her. But I see right away that he didn’t. Jeremy’s arms are raised, and he’s swaying. He’s closed his eyes. It’s too bright in here for him, at least when he’s like this—more agitated than usual. There are too many sounds—buzzing in the walls, screeches from chairs, murmurs from the gallery, where people are starting to watch Jeremy instead of Mrs. McCray.

He’s getting worse. His hands twist. With his eyes shut, I know he’s imagining an empty jar in his fingers, one hand screwing the lid on tight. It’s been too long for him, too long without his jars. They calm him.

“Mr. Munroe, will you please restrain your client?” the judge asks.

Raymond turns around. His eyes double in size when he sees Jeremy jerking back and forth, arms raised, his fingers working an imaginary jar. The motion looks weirder if you don’t know that’s what he’s doing, pretending he has his jar.

Raymond rushes to Jeremy and whispers fast to him. He touches my brother’s arm, but Jeremy jerks away. He makes a tiny squeal, the sound of an animal caught in a trap.

“Mr. Munroe,” the judge says, “if you can’t get your client under control, I’ll have to ask that he be removed from the proceedings.”

Raymond can’t help my brother.

I turn to Chase. “Give me the aspirin.”

“It’s too soon, Hope.”

“Give it to me!” I’m loud enough that people around us turn to stare.

Chase gets the bottle out of his pack. “You shouldn’t—”

I yank the bottle out of his grip. “Open your hand.”

“What?”

“Just do it!”

He opens his hand, and I dump the entire bottle into his palm. Several pills fall to the floor.

Jeremy’s noise gets louder. He doesn’t speak, but there’s nothing wrong with his vocal cords.

“Mr. Munroe?” the judge demands.

I’m on my feet, bottle in hand, sliding through the rows of spectators, not stopping until I reach the defense table.

People are talking now, and the judge bangs her gavel to stop them. Or me. “Order in the court! Mr. Munroe, do you want to tell the court what’s going on at your table?”

I know any other judge in the world might have thrown me and Jeremy and even Raymond out by now. So I turn to her, picturing that Grateful Dead T-shirt under her robe. “Your Honor, I’m his … his helper?”

“His helper?” she repeats.

I elbow Raymond until he gets it. “Um … my assistant. In a manner of speaking.”

“Uh-huh.” The judge’s eyebrows arch up to her forehead.

I reach across the table to give Jeremy the bottle. I don’t know if he realizes I’m here.

“Just a minute,” the judge warns. “May I ask what it is you’re trying to pass to the defendant?”

“I object, Your Honor!” Keller stands up as if he’s been asleep and has to make up for lost time.

“To what?” the judge asks.

It takes him a second to answer. “To the disruption to the proceedings, Your Honor. This is totally out of order.”

“I’ll take care of my own court, thank you, Mr. Keller. You may sit down.” She turns to me. “Will the attorney for the defense’s
assistant
please approach the bench, with whatever that is you’re trying to hand over to the defendant?”

I glance at Jeremy. He’s looking at me now. He sees the bottle. His eyes are wide open. He reaches for it.

“Ms. Long?” the judge calls.

“Yes, ma’am. Your Honor.” I head for the bench. Behind me, Jeremy starts up with the animal noise. It’s louder now,
filled with pain. I run the rest of the way to the judge and hand her the bottle. “Please,” I beg. “He needs to hold this bottle.” I can imagine what’s running through her mind.
Is he addicted to aspirin?

Jeremy whimpers. Then from deep in his throat comes a scream. Not a regular, mouth-open scream, but a throat scream, filled with guts and stomach and insides. The whole courtroom goes silent, making the growl sound louder.

“Your Honor, I object,” Keller says, sounding a little bit scared, I think.

“To an empty aspirin bottle, Mr. Keller? I don’t remember anything on the books about that one.” The judge shoves the bottle back into my hand and waves me off. “Go, girl!”

I run back to the table and put the bottle into Jeremy’s hand. His eyes flick open, and the sound cuts off as clean as if somebody shut off the sound track. I hand him the cap to the bottle. He stares from the bottle to the cap. He breathes more easily as he clutches the bottle to his chest.

“It’s plastic, Jer,” I explain. “I don’t know how long they’ll let you keep it. But if they give it back to me, I’ll put it on the shelf with the rest of them. I’ll try to bring you another one too. I’m sorry I didn’t bring you one before.”

I breathe in the scent of my brother. He smells like mint toothpaste or mouthwash, and sweat. He’s back. The real Jeremy is back. The good Dr. Jekyll.

I risk glancing at the jury as I turn to go. They’re all wide awake now. What are they thinking? What are they saying about Jeremy?

I take my seat next to Chase, but my gaze is fixed on my
brother. He sweeps the bottle in the air above him, and with his other hand holding the cap, he brings them together and caps the bottle, as if capturing a rainbow no one else can see. The act itself transforms my brother’s face into something angelic. I want the jurors to see this change, this face. But I don’t think they’re watching. They’re listening to the testimony that’s started up again.

I listen too. But I keep one eye on Jeremy.

I glance at the jurors, and I catch Juror Number Three looking at me. I smile, then nod at Jeremy. She doesn’t look at my brother, but she gives me a tiny smile—I’m almost sure of it.

The instant court is adjourned, I’m out of my seat and heading for my brother. Nobody stops me until I’m almost there. One of the officers of the court puts out his arm. “I’m sorry, miss. I can’t let you get closer. They’re taking him back now.”

I shout over the guard’s arm. “Jeremy! I know you didn’t do it. Everybody can see that. You could never kill anybody.
I
could, if I got mad enough long enough.” I can imagine an instant of hate exploding out of my hands in a black smoke of anger. “Or Rita. We’ve both seen that temper of hers. It’s not a very big leap to imagine Rita doing it.”

Jeremy stops fidgeting with the bottle and glares at me. The angelic look disappears from his face.

“But not you,” I say quickly, finishing my thought. “I can picture almost anybody I know losing his temper and in a single instant doing something he’d regret. But I can’t picture you doing it.” I lean in and lower my voice. “And I know
you’re not crazy. I’d sooner believe the whole world is crazy than believe you were crazy for one minute.”

“We have to go.” The guard steps away from me and takes one of Jeremy’s arms, with a second guard holding Jer’s other arm. He goes with them without a struggle, his back straight, his chin held high, like he’s been invited to visit royalty.

After court, Chase drops me off
in front of my house. As soon as he drives away, I feel someone watching me. My skin tingles, and for a second I can’t move from the sidewalk. I glance around for the pickup truck I know I’ll see, but it’s starting to get dark, and I can’t make out forms across the street.

Then I see him. T.J. He’s standing in the neighbor’s yard, leaning against a tree, staring at me.

“T.J., you scared me half to death!” I start toward him, but I’m struck with a mixture of sadness, loss, and something else … fear. I stop a few feet away from him. “I’ve missed you.”

He doesn’t say anything. He just keeps staring, his mouth hard, his eyes invisible behind those glasses.

“I look for you every day in court,” I say, my voice sounding thin and false, even though I’m telling the truth. “I can’t believe you stopped coming.”

“I’ve been there.” He doesn’t budge. I don’t think his lips
moved. If I didn’t know better, I’d think somebody else had spoken, not T.J.

“I didn’t see you.”

“I saw you. You and Chase.”

“But how—?”

“From the gallery.” His voice isn’t angry or hurt, but something worse. It’s cold as death.

I don’t know what to say to him. “Well, I wish you’d come sit with us.”

I think he laughs, but his face doesn’t change expression. The word
us
hangs in the air. “We’ve been friends a long time, T.J.”

He takes a step toward me. It’s all I can do not to run away. “Have we?”

I watch him walk off. And this time, nothing in me wants to run after him.

Finally, it’s the day we’ve been waiting for—Caroline Johnson is called to the witness stand. Reporters are on the edge of their chairs. Nobody on the jury looks the least bit sleepy.

The double doors open, and as if she’s been waiting her whole life for this grand entrance, Caroline Johnson is wheeled into the courtroom. It’s a thousand degrees in this room, but she’s wearing a tailored business suit, solid navy or maybe black, and she has a plaid blanket folded over her lap, topped off by a box of tissues.

Seeing her makes me think of T.J. He was trying so hard to help me find something against this woman. The morning after we searched the crime scene, T.J. texted me that he
wished he could get a look at Mrs. Johnson’s shoes. He’d seen some TV show where they proved a guy was lying about being stuck in a wheelchair because the bottoms of his shoes were all scuffed up. I try to get a glimpse of Mrs. Johnson’s shoes as she’s wheeled in, but her feet rest on little footrests.

I want to wipe out my last conversations with T.J. I want to forget the way I felt the last time I saw him. I just want to hold on to how much he tried to help me, how much he’s always tried to help me.

Instead of making Caroline Johnson walk to the witness chair, which I totally believe she could do, they have a ramp in place so she can be wheeled right up and into the box. Raymond smiles at her, and she sort of smiles back, but it looks more like a wince. I can’t help analyzing every movement, wondering if she’s for real. On the one hand, she’s taken the time to paint her fingernails and put on lipstick. On the other hand, if she is faking, then she should get an Academy Award because even I’m starting to feel a little sorry for her.

I try to bring back the image of Caroline Johnson screaming at her husband in the ball field parking lot. How does
that
Caroline fit with the withered woman in front of me? I want the jury to see
that
Caroline Johnson, not this one.

I whisper to Chase, “Right. And it only took a court order to get her here.”