Defending Jacob(123)
“Like cockroaches.”
“That’s right, I’m a tough old cockroach. Proud of it.”
“So what did you do? Call in a favor? Or just reach out to an old friend?”
“I told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know, the thing is, it actually took me a while to figure it out. I’ve got a cop friend who told me this guy Father O’Leary was an old leg-breaker and he was still working as a fixer, and when I asked what that meant, a ‘fixer,’ he said, ‘He makes problems go away.’ So that’s what you did, isn’t it? You called an old friend and you made the problem go away.”
No answer. Why should he help me by talking? Bloody Billy understood the policeman’s dilemma as well as I did. No confession, no case; no case, no confession.
But we both knew what went down. We were thinking the exact same thing, I’m sure: Father O’Leary goes over there one night, after a particularly bad day for Jacob in court, and he puts a scare into this fat kid, waves a gun in his face, makes him sign a confession. The kid probably shit his pants before Father O’Leary strung him up.
“Do you know what you’ve done to Jacob?”
“Yeah, I saved his life.”
“No. You took away his day in court. You took away his chance to hear the jury say ‘not guilty.’ From now on, there’ll always be a little doubt. There’ll always be people convinced Jacob is a murderer.”
He laughed. Not a little laugh but a roar. “His day in court? And I’m the fool? Junior, you know what? You’re not as smart as I thought you were.” He laughed some more. Big, crazy, gusting belly laughs. He mimicked me in a high, prissy voice, “ ‘Oh, his day in court!’ Jesus, junior! It’s a wonder you’re out there and I’m in here. How the f*ck does that happen? You dumb gavoon.”
“It’s a crazy world. Imagine, them putting a guy like you in prison.”
He ignored me. He leaned forward as if he meant to whisper a secret in my ear through the inch-thick slab of glass. “Listen,” he confided, “you want to get all Dudley Do-Right here? You want to throw your kid back in the shit? Is that what you want, junior? Call the cops. Go ahead, call the cops and tell them this whole crazy story you’ve got about Patz and this guy O’Leary I supposedly know. What do I give a shit? I’m in here for life anyway. You won’t be hurting me. Go on. He’s your kid. Do what you want with him. Like you said, maybe the kid’ll get off. Take your chances.”
“They can’t try Jacob again anyway. Jeopardy’s attached.”
“So? Even better. Sounds like you think this guy O’Leary committed a murder. If I was you, I’d go report it right away. Is that what you’re going to do, Mr. DA Man? Or maybe that won’t look so good for the kid, will it?”
He looked me square in the eyes for a few seconds until I became aware of my own blinking.
“No,” he said, “I didn’t think so. We through here?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Hey, guard! Guard!”
Two guards ambled over with skeptical faces.
“Me and my son are all done visiting. You guys ever met my son?”
The guards did not answer, did not even glance at me. They seemed to think it was a trick to get them to look away for a second and they were not about to fall for it. Their job was to get the wild animal back into its cage. That was dangerous enough. There was no percentage in breaking protocol.
“All right,” my father said as one of the guards fished around for the key to reattach the cuffs to his harness. “You come back soon, junior. Remember, I’m still your father. I’ll always be your father.” The guards began to rustle him out of the chair but he went right on talking. “Hey,” he said to the guards, “you should get to know this guy. He’s a lawyer. Maybe you guys’ll need a lawyer somed—”
One of the guards pulled the phone from his hand and hung it up. He stood the prisoner up, reattached the handcuffs to his waist chain, then tugged the whole arrangement of chains to make sure he was properly trussed. Billy’s eyes were on me the whole time, even as the guards jostled him. What he saw when he looked at me is anybody’s guess. Probably just a stranger in a window frame.
Mr. Logiudice: I’m going to ask you again. And I’m going to remind you, Mr. Barber, you are under oath.
Witness: I’m aware of that.
Mr. Logiudice: And you are aware we are talking about a murder here.
Witness: The M.E. ruled it a suicide.
Mr. Logiudice: Leonard Patz was murdered and you know it!
Witness: I don’t know how anyone could know that.
Mr. Logiudice: And you have nothing to add?
Witness: No.
Mr. Logiudice: You have no idea what happened to Leonard Patz on October 25, 2007?
Witness: None.
Mr. Logiudice: Any theories?
Witness: No.
Mr. Logiudice: Do you know anything at all about James Michael O’Leary, also known as Father O’Leary?
Witness: Never heard of him.
Mr. Logiudice: Really? You’ve never even heard the name.
Witness: Never heard of him.
I remember Neal Logiudice standing there with his arms crossed, smoldering. Once upon a time, I might have patted him on the back, told him, “Witnesses lie. Nothing you can do. Go have a beer, just let it go. All crime is local, Neal—these guys all come back sooner or later.” But Logiudice was not the type to shrug off an insolent witness. Probably he did not give a shit about the Patz murder, anyway. This was not about Leonard Patz.