Defending Jacob(74)

“No one’s on my f*ckin’ list. Whattaya think? Who would be on my f*ckin’ list? They don’t let people visit here anyway. Just immediate family.”

“You want me to leave?”

“No. Did you hear me say that?” He shook his head, frowned. “This f*ckin’ place. This place is the worst. I haven’t been here the whole time, you know. They move me around. You do bad somewheres else, they send you here. It’s a hole.”

He seemed to lose interest in the subject and he fell silent.

I did not speak. I have found in any Q&A, in court, in witness interviews, wherever, often the best thing you can do is wait, say nothing. The witness will want to fill the awkward silence. He will feel a vague compulsion to keep talking, to prove he is not holding back, to prove he is smart and in the know, to earn your trust. In this case, I think, I waited just out of habit. Certainly I had no intention of leaving. Not until he said yes.

His mood shifted. He slumped. Almost visibly, he went from petulant to resigned, even self-pitying.

“Well,” he said, “you came out big, at least. She must’ve fed you good.”

“She did fine. With everything.”

“How is she, your mother?”

“What do you give a shit?”

“I don’t.”

“So don’t talk about her.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

I shook my head.

“I knew her before you did,” he said. He squirmed in his chair with a leer, wiggled his hips, mimed f*cking her.

“Your grandson is in trouble. Did you know that?”

“Did I—? I didn’t even know I had a grandson. What’s his name?”

“Jacob.”

“Jacob?”

“What’s so funny?”

“The f*ck kind of faggot name is Jacob?”

“It’s a name!”

Bouncing with laughter, he sang in falsetto, “Jaaaacob!”

“Watch your mouth. He’s a good kid.”

“Yeah? Can’t be that good or you wouldn’t be here.”

“I said watch your mouth.”

“What’s little Jacob in trouble for?”

“Murder.”

“Murder? Murder. How old is he?”

“Fourteen.”

My father lowered the phone to his lap and slumped back in his chair. When he sat back up again, he said, “Who’d he kill?”

“No one. He’s innocent.”

“Yeah, so am I.”

“He’s really innocent.”

“Okay, okay.”

“You never heard anything about this?”

“I never hear about anything in here. This place is a toilet.”

“You must be the oldest con in here.”

“One of ’em.”

“I don’t know how you survive it.”

“You can’t hurt steel.” The handcuffs forced him to raise both arms as he held the phone in his left hand, and he flexed his unoccupied right arm. “You can’t hurt steel.” But then his bravado vanished. “This place is a hole,” he said. “It’s like living in a f*ckin’ cave.”

He had a way of swinging between the two poles of hyper-machismo and self-pity. It was hard to tell which one was a put-on. Maybe neither was. On the street this sort of emotional volatility would have seemed crazy. In here, who knew? Maybe it was a natural reaction to this place.

“You put yourself in this place.”

“I put myself in this place and I’m doing my bid and I’m not complaining. You hear me complaining?”

I did not answer.

“So what d’you want outa me? You want me to do something for poor innocent little Jacob?”

“I may want you to testify.”

“Testify to what?”

“Let me ask you something. When you killed that girl, what did it feel like? Not physically. I mean, what was in your mind, what were you thinking about?”

“What do you mean, what was I thinking about?”

“Why did you do it?”

“What do you want me to say? You tell me.”

“I just want you to tell the truth.”

“Yeah, right. Nobody wants that. Especially the people who tell you they want the truth—trust me, they don’t want the truth. You tell me what you want me to say to help the kid out and I’ll say it. I don’t give a shit. What do I give a shit?”

“Let me put it this way. When it happened, were you thinking anything? Anything at all? Or was it kind of an irresistible impulse?”

The corner of his mouth curled upward. “An irresistible impulse?”

“Just answer.”

“Is that what you’re going for?”

“Never mind what I’m going for. I’m not going for anything. Just tell me what you felt.”

“I felt an irresistible impulse.”

I exhaled loud and long. “You know, if you were a better liar, you might not be in here.”

“If you weren’t such a good liar, you might not be out there.” He eyed me. “You want me to help get the kid off, I’ll help you. He’s my grandkid. Just tell me what you need.”