Defending Jacob(70)

The more I watched Leonard Patz, the more I became convinced he was Ben Rifkin’s killer. I followed him on his morning rounds, to Dunkin’ Donuts then to work at Staples, and I was there when he came out of work too. His Staples uniform made him look ridiculous. The red polo shirt hugged his flabby torso too tightly. Khaki pants accentuated the sort of bulging pelvis that Jacob and his pals call a “front butt.” I did not dare go into the store to see what they had Patz selling. Electronics, probably, computers, cell phones—he looked like the type. Of course it is the prosecutor’s privilege to choose his defendant, but I simply could not understand why Logiudice preferred Jacob to this man. Maybe it is a parent’s wishful thinking or a prosecutor’s cynicism, but I still do not understand it, even now.

By August, I had been following Patz around for weeks, in the mornings and evenings, before and after his workday. Matt Magrath’s information was proof positive, as far as I was concerned, but it would not fly in court. No jury would ever accept his word. I needed harder evidence, something that did not rely on that shifty kid. I do not know what exactly I was hoping to see by trailing Patz around like this. A stumble. A return to the scene, a late-night drive to dispose of evidence. Anything.

In the event, Patz did nothing especially suspicious. For that matter, he did not do very much at all. In his off hours, he seemed content to loaf in shops or hang out in his apartment near Cold Spring Park. He liked to eat at the McDonald’s on Soldiers Field Road in Brighton, where he would order at the drive-through and eat in his plum-colored car while listening to the radio. Once, he went to the movies by himself. None of it was remotely significant. But nothing he did ever shook my certainty that Patz was the one. The outrageous possibility that my son would be sacrificed to save this man became an obsession. I grew more and more addled the longer I followed him, stared at him, the longer I dwelt on this idea. The dullness of his life, far from dispelling my suspicion, only infuriated me all the more. He was hiding, laying low, waiting for Logiudice to do his work for him.

On a sultry Wednesday evening in August, I followed directly behind Patz’s car as he made his way home through Newton Centre, a shopping area and village green where several busy roads intersect. It was around five o’clock and still sunny. Traffic was lighter than usual (this is the sort of town that empties out in August) but still bumper-to-bumper. Most drivers had their car windows rolled up tight against the humid heat. A few, including Patz and me, kept our windows open and hung our left elbows out for a little relief. Even the ice-cream eaters on the sidewalk outside J.P. Licks had a limp, defeated look.

At a red light I nuzzled in behind Patz’s car. I clenched the steering wheel tight.

Patz’s brake lights flickered and his car lurched slightly.

I lifted my foot off the brake. I don’t know why. I was not sure how far I intended to take it. But I was happy, for the first time in a long time, as my car rolled forward and bumped his with a satisfying chunk.

He looked at me in his rearview mirror and raised his hands. What was that!

I shrugged, backed the car up a few feet, then knocked his bumper again, a little harder this time. Chunk.

Through his rear window, I saw his shadowy shape put up its hands again in exasperation. I watched him shift the car into park, open the door, and hoist his bulk up out of the car.

And I became a different person. A different person, yet I moved and acted with a naturalness and fluency that was wild and unfamiliar, and thrilling.

I was out of the car and moving toward him before I was quite aware of my own motion, without ever actually deciding to confront him.

He raised his hands in front of his chest, palms forward, and his face registered surprise.

I gathered his shirt up in my hands and thrust him against his car, bending him backward. I buried my snout in his face and growled, “I know what you did.”

He did not respond.

“I know what you did.”

“What are you talking about? Who are you?”

“I know about the boy in Cold Spring Park.”

“Oh my God, you’re crazy.”

“You have no idea.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Honest. You’ve got the wrong guy.”

“Yeah? Do you remember going to meet Ben Rifkin in the park? Do you remember telling Matt Magrath you were going to do that?”

“Matt Magrath?”

“How long were you watching Ben Rifkin, how long were you stalking him? Did you ever talk to him? Did you bring your knife that day? What happened? Did you offer him the same deal you had with Matt, a hundred bucks for a feel? Did he turn you down? Did he make fun of you, call you names? Did he try to beat you up, push you around, scare you? What set you off, Leonard? What made you do it?”

“You’re the father, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not Ben’s father.”

“No, the one that got charged. You’re the father. They told me about you. The DA said you’d try to talk to me.”

“What DA?”

“Logiudice.”

“What did he say?”

“He said you had this idea in your head and you might try to talk to me someday, and I shouldn’t talk to you. He said you were …”

“What?”

“He said you were crazy. He said you might be violent.”