At the Edge (13 page)

Terrific. It looked like everyone had plans—except me.

“Where are you going?” Morgan asked.

“A town called Harris.”

Morgan perked up immediately, and I knew why. According to her, the photos that we had seen in James's cell phone had been taken in Harris. She glanced at me to see if I remembered.

“What's in Harris?” she said to James.

“My dad bought a place outside of town a few months ago. I have to go and clean it out.”

“For the winter, you mean?”

“For good. We're selling it.”

“So soon after you bought it? Is it built on a swamp or something?”

“My dad got a job offer.” James turned to me. “A visiting professorship.”

“Where?” I said.

“Australia. We're moving again.” He sounded relieved—and no wonder. Australia was halfway around the world, far, far away from what had happened to his brother.

Morgan glanced at me. She looked stricken on my behalf.

“When are you leaving?” she said.

“He starts teaching in January, so we're leaving in December.”

That was two months from now. In just two months, James would be gone. It was my turn to feel relieved. James didn't want me to tell anyone his secret. He didn't want anyone to know what had happened in that alley five years ago.

And as long as no one knew his secret, no one would ever know the crazy link between the two of us. He would never know.

James would never know that my mom was the lawyer who had grilled him on the witness stand that terrible day in court. He would never know that it was my mom who had made sure that the man who had shot his brother walked free. And if he never knew that, I would never have to face his hatred.

“You'll have an amazing time, James,” I said. “You could take up surfing.”

James looked down at his bad leg. “Well, I don't know about that.” Then he flashed a smile. “But it will be different, that's for sure. I can't wait.”

“James invited us all to go to Harris with him this weekend,” Billy said.

“Well, actually, Billy offered to come,” James said, the pink in his cheeks betraying his awkwardness.

“Four can get a lot more done than one, and in a lot less time,” Billy said. “We can have that place cleaned out in no time. We can go up first thing Saturday morning—”

“I can't,” Morgan said.

“Why not?” Billy asked.

There was a slight pause before she answered.

“Um, I have a hair appointment first thing Saturday morning.”

I stared at her. She had had her hair cut and styled two weeks ago.
Liar!

“Cancel it,” Billy said. “You can get your hair done some other time.”

Morgan looked aghast at the prospect.

“Not with Anthony, I can't. He's booked up a month in advance.”

“So, wait a month,” Billy said.

Morgan managed to look even more horrified.

Billy sighed. He turned to James.

“Well, I'll come,” he said. “And so will Robyn.”

What? I hadn't agreed to that.

“Well, I—” I stammered. I couldn't come up with an excuse as quickly as Morgan.

“I'll come too,” Morgan said. “If you're willing to wait until late afternoon.”

James frowned. “Well ... My dad is having some packing stuff delivered in the morning. I have to be there to sign for it.”

“Or,” Morgan said, undeterred, “you and Robyn can go in the morning, and Billy and I will take the bus up later in the day. We can be there for dinner. Do you have a TV up there, James? We'll bring some movies. It'll be fun. Don't you think, Robyn? Unless you have something else planned?”

She knew perfectly well that I didn't. Half of me wanted to strangle her. The other half thought that she might have a point. Maybe helping James would get my mind off Nick.

“I'd be glad to help,” I said to James. He smiled gratefully.

“Do you want me to bring my camera?” Morgan said. “You know, so we can take some pictures.”

Could she be any less subtle?

“Why don't you?” James said. “I wouldn't mind a few pictures. You guys have been so great.” He beamed at me.

“Do you have a camera, James?” Morgan said. “Do you know anything about photography?”

I could have kicked her.

“Absolutely nothing,” he said.

Morgan looked significantly at me.

“Morgan has a really good camera,” Billy said. “She can be the official photographer.”

James looked at each of us in turn.

“You mean it?” he said. “You guys really want to help?”

“Sure,” Billy said. “Why not?”

James turned shyly to me. “I can pick you up first thing Saturday morning.”

“Perfect,” Morgan said. “Billy and I will take the bus up after my appointment, and we can all drive back together Sunday evening. What do you say, James?”

James didn't hesitate. “Okay.” Then, in a quieter voice, he said to me, “At first I didn't think I would miss anything or anyone here. Now I'm not so sure.”

Morgan was right. He was a sweet guy. Was it possible that a couple of months from now I might be sorry that he was leaving?

  .    .    .

“Gregory Johnson?” my dad said that afternoon after school. He was dressed for work at the warehouse and was hunting through his desk for something. “You mean that kid who was shot a few years ago? What brings him to mind, Robbie?”

“We're doing a unit on law in my social studies class,” I said. “My teacher mentioned it.”

“She did?” My dad frowned. “I can't imagine why. As far as I can recall, the case didn't set any precedents.”

“So you remember it?” I knew he would. My father might forget anniversaries and birthdays, but he never forgets anything related to criminal justice.

“Sure. In what context did it come up?”

“My teacher mentioned it in passing,” I said. “She was talking about eyewitness evidence.”

My dad nodded. “That was a big factor in the case, that's for sure.” He paused. “You haven't talked to your mother about this, have you?”

“Why?”

“Well, it was her first murder case. And she took a lot of flak for it.”

“She did?” I knew the case had been important to her. She had worked on it night and day. But I didn't know that she'd been criticized because of it.

“The eyewitness to the murder was the victim's brother. He was just a kid himself. Couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteen. And your mother—let's just say that not everyone appreciated how thoroughly she did her job.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some people said that she was a little too aggressive in cross-examining the kid.”

“Did you think that?”

My dad stopped his search and looked closely at me.

“What's this all about, Robbie? Did your teacher say something to you?”

“I'm just asking, Dad.”

He sank down onto his desk chair.

“As I recall, the description the boy gave, combined with descriptions from a couple of people who had seen Eddy Leonard in the area before the murder, is what led the police to Leonard. The boy identified him out of a police lineup. He said he had no doubt who he had seen holding the gun in the alley that night, and that was the testimony he gave during the examination in chief. Then ...”

He paused. “Did your teacher say something about your mom? Is that it? Because it has nothing to do with you. You don't have to feel like you have to defend—”

“It was nothing like that,” I said. “It just came up in passing, and I remembered the name. I thought maybe I'd do my project on the case.”

My dad looked surprised.

“Are you sure, Robbie? Because—”

“It would make a great project, Dad. And the fact that Mom was involved makes it even more interesting.”

“I don't know if your mother would feel the same way.”

“So what do you think, Dad? Do you think Mom was too aggressive?”

“Everyone is entitled to the best defense, Robbie.”

“I know.”

“And the burden of proof is on the prosecution. It's up to them to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt.”

“I know that, too, Dad.”

“It's the defense attorney's duty to mount a vigorous defense and to question the case made by the prosecution.” He paused and studied me again. “That's what happened in the Leonard case.”

“Then why did you and Mom argue so much about it at the time?”

“You remember that, huh?”

I nodded.

“Well, that was hardly our best year together.”

“Even so, you wouldn't have argued if you thought Mom had done the right thing.”

My dad shook his head. “I don't know where you're going with this,” he said. “But I'm not going to do it, Robbie.”

“Not going to do what?”

“Criticize your mom in front of you. She was just doing her job, and she did it well.”

“You mean because she got Eddy Leonard off?”

“I mean because she's a good lawyer. She gave the jury reasonable doubt. And in a case like that, that relies almost exclusively on eyewitnesses, the judge's words to the jury worked to her advantage.”

“What do you mean?”

“There have been a lot of studies on eyewitness IDing,” my dad said. “They show that less than one-third of eyewitnesses make accurate identifications. Less than a third. Eyewitness mistakes are one of the main causes of wrongful convictions. It's such a big problem that there's even case law on the subject. In cases where the accused is ID'd by only one eyewitness, a judge has to warn the jury about the potential weakness of eyewitness identification—that well-intentioned eyewitnesses have made honest mistakes, and as a result, people have been wrongfully convicted.”

“And the judge did that?”

My dad nodded.

“Do you think Eddy Leonard really did it, Dad? Do you think he killed Greg Johnson?”

He refused to answer.

“Okay,” I said. “Can I ask you something else? Was anyone else ever convicted of murdering Greg Johnson?”

“Not to my knowledge,” my dad said. Given the keen interest with which he followed the crime beat, that meant no. Greg Johnson's murderer had gone unpunished. “Charlie Hart was involved in the investigation. If you really want to do a project on the case, you should talk to him.”

“Do you think he'd mind?”

“I can call and ask him. I also know a reporter who covered the trial. I'll see what he can dig up for you. But I don't know how much you want to get into this with your mom. She got a pretty rough ride from some people, Robbie. It hurt her.”

He went back to rooting around in the drawer for whatever it was he was looking for.

I said I'd keep quiet about it. “Oh, by the way, Dad, Morgan and Billy and I are going up north this weekend with James Derrick.”

“James Derrick? Do I know him?”

I hesitated. I didn't want to lie to my dad, but I didn't want to get involved in a big discussion about James, either, especially after my promise to him.

“He's new at school this year,” I said. “He and Billy have turned out to be good friends. And I've been tutoring him.”

“Oh?” He arched an eyebrow.

“Just tutoring, Dad.”

“Oh. Well, have a good time then.” He pulled out an envelope and inspected it. “Aha!”

“Have you talked to Mom lately, Dad?”

“No. Why?”

“Just wondering.”

My dad stuffed the envelope into the pocket of his plaid work shirt. “I have to get to work, Robbie. See you later, okay?”

He called me that night to tell me that Charlie Hart would be happy to talk to me after school the next day.

C

harlie Hart waved to me from a booth as soon as I stepped into the restaurant. He stood up when I approached him.

“Good to see you again, Robyn,” he said, shaking my hand. “It's been a while.”

The last time I had seen Charlie Hart, he had been investigating the murder of a hockey star (and Morgan's boyfriend at the time), Sean Sloane.

“You're keeping safe, I hope,” he said, sliding back into the booth. A waitress appeared, order pad in hand. “Are you hungry, Robyn?” Charlie Hart said.

“No,” I said. “But go ahead, please.”

He ordered something to eat. “So, Mac said you wanted to talk to me about the Gregory Johnson shooting. He said it was for a school project.”

I nodded. The trouble with lying is that it almost never stops with one lie. I had lied to my mom about why I'd asked about the Eddy Leonard case, because I'd promised James I wouldn't say anything to anyone about it. So then I had to lie to my dad too. And now here I was, lying to Charlie Hart.

“What subject?” Charlie Hart asked.

“Social studies.”

“School sure has changed since I was there,” he said. “I sure don't remember any discussion of murder trials. I might have paid more attention if there had been. How can I help you?”