Defending Jacob(104)

“Then do something, junior. Tell me about this guy Patz.”

“What do you want to know? He likes little boys.”

“He’s a child molester?”

“Sort of.”

“Sort of? Either he is or he isn’t. How can you be sort of a child molester?”

“Same way you were a murderer before you actually murdered someone.”

“Oh, stop it, junior. I told you, you can’t hurt my feelings.”

“Would you stop calling me that, ‘junior’?”

“Does it bother ya?”

“Yes.”

“What should I call ya?”

“Don’t call me anything.”

“Pssh. I got to call you something. How else am I gonna talk to ya?”

“You’re not.”

“Junior, you got a lot of anger, you know that?”

“Was there anything else you wanted?”

“Wanted? I don’t want anything outa you.”

“I figured maybe you want a cake with a file in it.”

“Funny guy. A file in it. I get it. ’Cause I’m in prison.”

“That’s right.”

“Listen to me, junior, I don’t need no cake with a file in it, all right? You know why? I’ll tell you why. ’Cause I’m not in prison.”

“No. Did they let you out?”

“They don’t have to let me out.”

“They don’t? Let me give you a tip, crazy old man. That big building with the bars? The one they never let you out of? That’s called a prison, and you are definitely in it.”

“No. See, now you’re the one that doesn’t get it, junior. All they got locked up in this hole is my body. That’s all they got, my body, not me. I’m everywhere, see? Everywhere you look, junior, everywhere you go. Okay? Now, you just keep my grandkid out of this place. You got that, junior?”

“Why don’t you do it? You’re everywhere.”

“Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll fly right up there—”

“Look, I got to go, all right? I’m hanging up.”

“No. We’re not done—”

I hung up on him. But he was right, he was right there with me, because his voice kept right on rattling in my ears. I picked the phone up and smashed it down in its cradle again—one two three times—until I could not hear him anymore.

Jacob and Laurie both were staring at me with wide eyes.

“That was your grandfather.”

“I caught that.”

“Jake, I don’t want you to ever talk to him, all right? I’m serious.”

“Okay.”

“You’re never to speak to him, even if he calls you. You just hang up the phone. You got it?”

“Okay, okay.”

Laurie glared. “That goes for you too, Andy. I don’t want that man calling my house. He’s poison. Next time he calls, you hang up the phone, got it?”

I nodded.

“Are you all right, husband?”

“I don’t know.”





32 | The Absence of Evidence


Trial day five.

At the stroke of nine, Judge French stormed the bench and announced in a clenched way that the defendant’s motion for mistrial was denied. He said—as the stenographer repeated his words into a cone-shaped microphone which she held over her face like an oxygen mask—“Defendant’s objection to the mention of the defendant’s grandfather is noted for the record and the issue is preserved for appeal. I have given the jury a curative instruction. I think that’s enough. The prosecutor is cautioned not to mention the issue any further, and that’s all we’re going to hear about it. Now, absent any other objections, Court Officer, bring in the jury and let’s get started.”

I can’t say I was surprised. Mistrials are rare. The judge was not going to flush away the state’s enormous investment in seeing this trial through to the end, not if he could help it. He might have been embarrassed by a mistrial too. It might look like he had lost control of his courtroom. Logiudice knew all this, of course. He may have crossed the line intentionally, betting that the high stakes in this case made a mistrial particularly unlikely. But that is unkind.

The trial swept on.

“What is your name, please?”

“Karen Rakowski. R-A-K-O-W-S-K-I.”

“What is your occupation and your current assignment?”

“I am a criminalist with the Massachusetts State Police. I’m currently assigned to the State Police Crime Lab.”

“What is a criminalist, exactly?”

“A criminalist is someone who applies the principles of the natural and physical sciences to identify, preserve, and analyze evidence at a crime scene. She later testifies to her findings in a court of law.”

“How long have you been a criminalist with the state police?”

“Eleven years.”

“Approximately how many crime scenes would you say you’ve investigated over the course of your career?”

“Approximately five hundred.”

“Are you a member of any professional organizations?”

Rakowski proceeded to rattle off the names of a half dozen organizations, then her degrees and a teaching position and a few publications, all of which went swiftly by like a freight train: difficult to distinguish in detail but impressive in its length. The truth was, no one listened to Rakowski’s information dump because no one really questioned her qualifications. She was well known and respected. It should be pointed out that the job of “criminalist” has become a lot more professional and rigorous than it was when I started out. It has even become fashionable. Forensic science has become a lot more complex, particularly with respect to DNA evidence. No doubt the job has been glamorized by shows like CSI too. Whatever the reason, the job attracts more and better candidates now, and Karen Rakowski was among the first wave of criminalists in our county who were not just cops moonlighting as amateur scientists. She was the real thing. It was a lot easier to picture her in a white lab coat than in the jodhpurs and jackboots of the state police. I was glad she had been assigned the case. I knew she would give us a fair shake.