Defending Jacob(27)

“Is that a real possibility?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Do we have any responsibility here?”

“You mean, is it our fault somehow?”

“Fault? No. I mean, do we have to report it?”

“No. God, no. There’s nothing to report. It’s not a crime to have a knife. It’s not a crime to be a stupid teenager either—thank God, or we’d have to throw half of ’em in the can.”

Laurie nodded neutrally. “It’s just, he’s been accused, and now you know about it. And it’s not like the cops aren’t going to find it anyway; it’s right there on Facebook.”

“It’s not a credible accusation, Laurie. There’s no reason to bring the whole world down on Jake’s head. The whole thing is ridiculous.”

“Is that what you really think, Andy?”

“Yes! Of course. Don’t you?”

She searched my face. “Okay. So this isn’t what’s bothering you?”

“I already told you: nothing’s bothering me.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“What did you do with the knife?”

“I got rid of it.”

“Got rid of it where?”

“I threw it away. Not here. In a Dumpster somewhere.”

“You covered for him.”

“No. I just wanted that knife out of my house. And I didn’t want anyone using it to make Jacob look guilty when he’s not. That’s all.”

“How is that different from covering for him?”

“You can’t cover for someone who didn’t do anything wrong.”

She gave me a searching look. “Okay. I’m going up to bed. You coming?”

“In a little while.”

She got up, came over to plow her fingers through my hair and kiss my forehead. “Don’t stay up too late, sweetheart. You won’t be able to get up in the morning.”

“Laurie, you didn’t answer my question. I asked you what you think? Do you agree it’s ridiculous to think Jacob did this?”

“I think it’s very hard to imagine, yes.”

“But you can imagine it?”

“I don’t know. You mean you can’t, Andy? You can’t even imagine it?”

“No, I can’t. This is our son we’re talking about.”

She pulled back from me visibly, cautiously. “I don’t know. I guess I can’t imagine it either. But then I think: when I woke up this morning, I could not have imagined that knife.”





8 | The End


Sunday, April 22, 2007, ten days after the murder.





On a raw, drizzly morning, hundreds of volunteers turned out to sweep Cold Spring Park for the missing knife. They were a cross-section of the town. Kids from the McCormick, some who had been friends with Ben Rifkin, some who were clearly from other school tribes—jocks, geeks, kittenish good girls. There were lots of young mothers and fathers. A few of the activist machers who were constantly organizing community efforts of one kind or another. All these assembled in the morning damp, listened to instructions from Paul Duffy about how the search would proceed, then in teams they tromped off across the spongy wet ground to search their assigned quadrants of the woods for the knife. There was a determined mood to the whole adventure. It was a relief for everyone to do something finally, to be admitted into the investigation. Soon, they were sure, the whole thing would be resolved. It was the waiting, the uncertainty that was wearing them down. The knife would end all that. It would bear fingerprints or blood or some other morsel that would unlock the mystery, and the town would finally be able to exhale.

Mr. Logiudice: You didn’t take part in the search, did you?

Witness: No, I did not.

Mr. Logiudice: Because you knew it was a fool’s errand. The knife they were looking for had already been found in Jacob’s dresser drawer. And you had already dumped it for him.

Witness: No. I knew that was not the knife they were looking for. There was no doubt in my mind. Zero.

Mr. Logiudice: Then why didn’t you join the search?

Witness: A prosecutor never takes part in his own searches. I couldn’t risk becoming a witness in my own case. Think about it: if I were the one to find the murder weapon, I’d have become an essential witness. I’d be forced to cross the courtroom and take the stand. I’d have to give up the case. That’s why a good prosecutor always hangs back. He waits at the police station or out on the street while a search warrant is executed, he watches from the next room while a detective conducts an interrogation. That is Prosecution 101, Neal. It’s standard procedure. It’s exactly what I taught you, once upon a time. Maybe you weren’t listening.

Mr. Logiudice: So it was for technical reasons?

Witness: Neal, no one wanted the search to succeed as much as I did. I wanted my son to be proven innocent. Finding the real knife would have accomplished that.

Mr. Logiudice: You’re not the least bit troubled by the way you disposed of Jacob’s knife? Even now, knowing what happened?

Witness: I did what I thought was right. Jake was innocent. It was the wrong knife.

Mr. Logiudice: Of course you weren’t willing to test that theory, were you? You didn’t submit the knife for forensic testing, for fingerprints or blood or fiber traces, as you threatened Jacob you might?