Defending Jacob(110)
“So?”
“It might be nothing. Maybe the victim was reluctant or could not go through with it for whatever reason, and Logiudice did the right thing. Or maybe he dumped the wrong case, and Patz went off and committed a murder. Not the kind of thing you put on a campaign poster.” He shrugged. “I don’t have access to the DA’s files. That’s as far as I could get without calling attention to what I was doing. Hey, it’s not much, but it’s something.”
“Thanks.”
“Yeah, we’ll see,” he murmured. “It kind of doesn’t matter if it’s true, does it? If you just mention something like that in court, kick up a little dust in people’s eyes, know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I know what you mean, Perry Mason.”
“And if Logiudice takes it on the chin, that’s just a bonus, right?”
I smiled. “Yeah.”
“Andy, I am sorry, you know.”
“I know you are.”
“This job sucks sometimes.”
We stood looking at each other a few seconds.
“All right,” he said, “well, I’ll let you get to sleep. Big day tomorrow. You want me to sit out there awhile in case your friend comes back?”
“No. Thanks. We’ll be okay, I think.”
“Okay. So, see you later, I guess.”
Before I got into bed twenty minutes later, I raised the bedroom shade to peek out at the street. The black cruiser was still there, as I knew it would be.
34 | Jacob Was Mad
Trial day six.
Father O’Leary was in the audience at the back of the courtroom when the trial resumed next morning.
Laurie, looking gray and depleted, was at her lonely post in the front row of the gallery.
Logiudice, his confidence buoyed by the performances of a series of professional witnesses, moved with a little strut. It is a peculiarity of trials that, though the witness is ostensibly the star, the lawyer who is asking the questions is the only one in the courtroom who is free to move around as he pleases. Good lawyers tend not to move much, since they want the jurors’ eyes to remain on the witness. But Logiudice could not seem to find a comfortable perch as he flitted from the witness stand to the jury box to the prosecution table and various points in between before finally coming to roost at the lectern. I suspect he was on edge about the day’s slate of civilian witnesses, Jacob’s classmates, determined not to let these amateur witnesses run away with his case the way the last ones had.
On the stand was Derek Yoo. Derek who had eaten in our kitchen a thousand times. Who had lounged on our couch watching football games and scattering Doritos on the carpet. Derek who had jumped around the living room playing GameCube and Wii with Jacob. Derek who had blissfully nodded his head for hours, probably stoned, to the pounding bass beat of his iPod while Jacob did the same beside him—the music so loud we could hear it murmuring in his headphones; it was like hearing their thoughts. Now, seeing this same Derek Yoo on the stand, I would happily have skinned him alive, with his limp brush-proof garage-band hair and sleepy slacker expression, who now threatened to send my son to Walpole forever. For the event, Derek wore a tweed sport coat that hung off his narrow shoulders. His shirt collar was too big. Cinched under his tie, it bunched and twisted, and dangled from his skinny neck like a waiting noose.
“How long have you known the defendant, Derek?”
“Since kindergarten, I guess.”
“You went to elementary school together?”
“Yes.”
“Where was that?”
“Mason-Rice in Newton.”
“And you’ve been friendly ever since?”
“Yes.”
“Best friends?”
“I guess so. Sometimes.”
“You’ve been to each other’s houses?”
“Yeah.”
“Hung out together after school and on weekends?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you been in the same homeroom?”
“Sometimes.”
“When was the last time?”
“Not last year. This year Jake is not in school. I guess he has a tutor. So I guess two years ago.”
“But even in years when you weren’t in the same homeroom, you remained close friends?”
“Yeah.”
“So how many years is it that you and the defendant have been close friends?”
“Eight.”
“Eight. And you’re how old?”
“I’m fifteen now.”
“Is it fair to say that, as of the day Ben Rifkin was murdered, April 12, 2007, Jacob Barber was your best friend?”
Derek’s voice went quiet. The thought made him either sad or embarrassed. “Yeah.”
“Okay. Directing your attention to the morning of April 12, 2007, do you remember where you were that morning?”
“In school.”
“About what time did you get to school?”
“Eight-thirty.”
“How did you get to school that day?”
“Walked.”
“Did your route take you through Cold Spring Park?”
“No, I come from the other direction.”
“Okay. When you got to school, where did you go?”