Defending Jacob(55)
“Maybe. I’m probably not the best guy to ask.”
The Yoos lived on one of the mazy, shady streets behind the library, near the elementary school where all these kids first met. The house was a tidy little center-entrance colonial on a small lot, white with black shutters. A previous owner had built a brick shelter around the front door, which stood out on the white face of the building like a red-lipsticked mouth. I remembered crowding into this little compartment when Laurie and I used to visit during the winter months. That was back when Jacob and Derek were in grade school. Our families had been friendly then. Those were the days when the parents of Jacob’s friends tended to become our friends too. We used to line up other families like puzzle pieces, father to father, mother to mother, kid to kid, to see if we had a match. The Yoos were not a perfect fit for us—Derek had a little sister named Abigail, three years younger than the boys—but the friendship between our families had been convenient for a while. That we saw them less now was not the result of a breakup. The kids had simply outgrown us. They socialized among themselves now, and there had not been enough left of the family friendship to cause either of the parent couples to seek out the other. Still, I felt we were friends, even now. I was naive.
It was Derek who answered the door when I rang. He froze. Just gawped at me with his big dumb syrupy brown eyes until I finally said, “Hi, Derek.”
“Hey, Andy.”
The Yoo kids had always called Laurie and me by our first names, a permissive practice I never quite got used to and which, under the current circumstances, grated all the more.
“Can I talk to you a minute?”
Again, Derek seemed unable to formulate any answer at all. He stared at me.
From the kitchen, Derek’s dad, David Yoo, called, “Derek, who is it?”
“It’s all right, Derek,” I reassured him. His panic seemed almost comical. Why on earth was he so rattled? He had seen me a thousand times.
“Derek, who is it?”
I heard a chair scrape along the kitchen floor. David Yoo came out into the front hall and, with a hand placed lightly around the back of Derek’s neck, he drew his son back away from the door. “Hi, Andy.”
“Hi, David.”
“Was there something we can do for you?”
“I just wanted to talk to Derek.”
“Talk about what?”
“About the case. What happened. I’m trying to find out who really did it. Jacob is innocent, you know. I’m helping prepare for the trial.”
David nodded in an understanding way.
His wife, Karen, now came out of the kitchen and greeted me briefly, and they all stood together in the doorway like a family portrait.
“Can I come in, David?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“We’re on the witness list, Andy. I don’t think we’re supposed to talk to anyone.”
“That’s ridiculous. This is America—you can talk to whoever you want.”
“The prosecutor told us not to talk to anyone.”
“Logiudice?”
“That’s right. He said, don’t talk to anyone.”
“Well, he meant reporters. He didn’t want you running around making conflicting statements. He’s just thinking about the cross-examination. I’m trying to find the tru—”
“That’s not what he said, Andy. He said, don’t talk to anyone.”
“Yes, but he can’t say that. Nobody can tell you not to talk to anyone.”
“I’m sorry.”
“David, this is my son. You know Jacob. You’ve known him since he was a kid.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Well, can I at least come in and we’ll talk about it?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
We locked eyes.
“Andy,” he said, “this is our family time. I really don’t appreciate you being here.”
He went to close the door. His wife stopped him, holding the edge of the door, imploring him with her eyes.
“Please don’t come back here,” David Yoo told me. He added, weakly, “Good luck.”
He removed Karen’s hand from the door and gently closed it and, I could hear, he slid the chain into the lock.
16 | Witness
I was greeted at the Magraths’ apartment door by a dumpy, pie-faced woman with a frizz of unsprung black hair. She wore black spandex leggings and an oversized T-shirt with an equally oversized message stamped across the front: Don’t Give Me Attitude, I Have One of My Own. This witticism ran six full lines, drawing my eyes southward over her person from wavering bosom to detumescent belly, a journey I regret even now.
I said, “Is Matthew here?”
“Who wants to know?”
“I represent Jacob Barber.”
A blank look.
“The murder in Cold Spring Park.”
“Ah. You his lawyer?”
“Father, actually.”
“It’s about time. I was beginning to think that kid was all alone in the world.”
“How’s that?”
“It’s just we been waiting for someone to show up here. It’s been weeks. Where’s the cops already?”