Order in the Court (2 page)

Phillip reappeared in the doorway. I pulled a respectable-looking beige skirt from the back of the closet. The pleats in the front were fastidiously ironed in straight lines I’d never have been able to replicate if I were the one washing it.

“May I borrow this?” I asked, holding it up.

“You can have it,” he said.

“I won’t need to keep it… I just need something respectable for the trial.”

Phillip’s brow furrowed a little, but he shrugged his one shoulder absently, nearly spilling the cup of tea in his hand. “You always look respectable, Corey. You’ve grown into a very respectable young woman.” He awkwardly looked down at his tea and took a huge gulp, probably burning his mouth.

I glanced down at myself, dressed in a baggy flannel shirt of my father’s thrown over a Batman T-shirt and jeans. “Juries are picky, I guess,” I said, thinking of Mr. Haywood’s words. “And if I’m going to be a piece of evidence, I have to be one they can trust.”

Phillip stepped into the room and put his tea down on the desk. It was a small space; he barely had to take two of his huge steps in order to lay his hand on my shoulder. “You’re going to do great,” he said gruffly, his voice low and hollow, as though it came right out of his chest. His hand was heavy on my shoulder. “It doesn’t matter what you wear, or even what you say. The jury is going to know they can trust you. You’re a good girl.”

“Ricky was a good girl too,” I said, and his hand clenched down on my shoulder for a fraction of a second before Phillip let go and pulled it back, stuffing it in the front pocket of his jeans. “I just want to do right by her.”

Ricky’s father nodded solemnly, and then looked at the skirt in my hands. “You sure that won’t be too short?” he joked. He sounded so fatherly I couldn’t help but smile as I held it to my waist, where it hung to my knees. It would’ve been shorter on Ricky, who was all legs. “No, you’re right. That’s the perfect thing.” He sounded sad. How often would he be able to judge a skirt for appropriate length now that his little girl was gone?

My smiled dropped. I added the skirt to the few things I wanted to keep for myself. “I’ll give it back after the trial,” I said. “I’m just borrowing it.”

“Keep it for as long as you need.” Phillip picked up his mug again, looking around the room. “This place is an absolute pigsty. For a girl who I taught how to make hospital corners, she sure was a mess.” He sounded incredibly fond as he ran his fingers along her bookcase, which had accumulated a layer of dust in her absence.

“We all were, I think. I’m still a mess.” I put the things I was going to take in a bag I’d brought and then set about sorting the rest into piles of “keep” and “give away.” Every object that got put into the “give away” pile was like a stone falling into my stomach, hard and obstructive.

Some teenaged girls were going to buy Ricky’s things from the thrift store and never know the girl who had so lovingly hung her collection of skirts in order of length or color or, once, alphabetically by store.
Obsessive
, I’d called it then. Joked about it. Laughed. It felt wrong taking her things out of the order she’d so meticulously kept them in. How she could stand her room being such a mess when her closet was so neat I’d never know.

“Thanks for doing this,” Phillip said again, from the doorway, where he’d once again set up vigil with his mug of tea. I could see, in the set of his jaw, the military-straight back, and the clench of his fist around the mug’s handle, why some people were intimidated by him; I could also see the man who sat a tiny seven-year-old Ricky on his lap for bedtime stories, sewed a sparkly patch onto the ripped knee of her favorite pair of jeans in the fourth grade, and braided her hair every morning for years with only one hand. I was not scared of this man, straight-backed in the doorway. I felt incredibly sorry for him, for his compounded loss of limb, wife, and now daughter.

“Thanks for letting me” is what I responded this time, feeling the weight of the words in my chest. I was thankful to be here, thankful to be able to help. Having my hands all over Ricky’s things was a bit like touching her again; the clothes still smelled like her, even after all this time.

“RICKY WAS
the quiet type, shy. She wanted to make everybody happy, so she’d always go along with whatever we wanted to do. Whenever I wanted to join a new club, she was always the person willing to sign up with me, even if it was something she wasn’t interested in. She was just that good a friend.”

Haywood bobbed his head, nodding as he walked confidently across the courtroom. “Would she ever hurt someone? Pick fights, get in trouble?”

“Never,” I said quickly, shaking my head. “She wanted to study nursing so she could work in a retirement home helping the elderly. You couldn’t convince her to say a bad word about anyone, even if they really deserved it. She always saw the best in people. It made her a little naive, maybe, but we loved her for it.”

“And what about Jessa Fuentes?”

“She would never hurt anybody either.” I tried not to sound defensive. Haywood was establishing their character for the jury, not making them out to be the bad guys. We had trained for this. “She was so good at being good.”

“Tell me about her,” Haywood pressed, scratching at his chin.

“She went to church every Sunday. She had this—little pink Bible.” I made a gesture with my hands to indicate the smallness of this artifact, currently being held in evidence by the police. “She put it in her purse and whenever anyone needed guidance, she would whip it out and have the perfect passage ready to comfort you, or inspire you. She always had whatever you needed at a moment’s notice. Especially if that thing was a hug.”

I closed my eyes and pictured her, in her white prom dress, her black hair falling over her shoulders in soft waves, her smile leaving a dimple in her left cheek. “She wasn’t perfect, but she was as close as any of us. She volunteered for the homeless and the hungry, organized food drives and bake sales. I had a set number of volunteer hours to do because I was a prefect at school, but she did way more than I ever did, and she never recorded any of it. She did it because it made her feel good. Because she was charitable and righteous and
good
.”

When I opened my eyes, the courtroom was covered in a thin film of tears. I blinked them away and ran my fingers under my eyes to brush away the wetness. The stoic faces of the audience made me swallow past the lump in my throat and sit a bit straighter. I was not here to cry. I was here to tell them what happened so that the man who killed my friends would be punished, as I knew he should.

“Katherine Barrett,” Haywood continued, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and walking up to the stand. I took it gratefully and dabbed at my eyes. He stepped back before I could hand it back to him, so I held it in my lap. “The defendant’s half sister.”

I couldn’t help it. I looked over at Dustin. He was sitting so straight and proper, his face set like stone. He wasn’t looking at me, but straight ahead of him, vacantly gazing into space. I could see a little of Kate in his features—the line of his jaw, the shape of his nose. I could see a little of Kate in their mother too, seated just behind her son, looking mildly disgruntled but otherwise composed. She looked worse now than she had at the funeral of her only daughter.

Haywood said, “Tell me about her,” and I hesitated. I always did at this part during our practice runs. How do you say “I was in love with her, flaws and all” to a group of people who hadn’t known her, hadn’t seen her smile light up a room? How do you express the minutia of a person who went to great lengths to be indescribable, unpredictable in any given moment?

“Kate was…,” I started, then stopped again, trying to remember the notes I’d taken trying to do just that. “Kate was different, from the rest of us. She broke the mold. She was a thrill seeker, always moving on to bigger and better things. She had this… easy confidence that we all tried to replicate but couldn’t. She loved music and danced all the time, sometimes when there was no music. She didn’t need it.” I smiled wistfully, remembering the skip in her step down the hallway at school, even in heels that would have made me teeter. “She danced because she loved life.”

“Do you recognize the defendant?” Haywood asked, and I nodded. “Out loud, please.” There were tape recorders listening to every word. A nod was not sufficient for the recording.

“Yes, I recognize the defendant.”

“Who is he?”

I bit the inside of my cheek. “He’s Kate’s brother, Dustin. Her half brother, I mean. But they never made the distinction.” He looked at me then, meeting my gaze and holding it. He had blue eyes, Kate’s blue eyes, and I felt sick to my stomach just looking at him.

“How well do you know him? Did you see him often?” Haywood pressed, stepping into my line of sight so that Dustin was blocked from my view. I felt a wave of relief at not having to look into his eyes anymore, Kate’s eyes.

“I don’t know him well. He was around when we were younger, but he left for college when we were in the sixth grade. He came home for holidays, but I never really saw him much.” I swallowed hard and closed my eyes. “Until prom night.” A murmur rolled through the crowed. I needed to say it now, with confidence and conviction. “When he killed my friends at Sparky’s Diner.”

“I JUST
say it?” I asked again, picking at my fingernails. I’d bitten them all down to the quick, and a hangnail on my right thumb bled on and off. “Just like that?”

“It’s the truth,” Haywood said, glancing at my mother. She sat at my elbow, a slip of a woman in a smart pantsuit. “You just need to tell the truth. I’m going to ask if you’ve seen much of him, and you tell me that you hadn’t, until he killed your friends.”

Every time he said it, a jolt ran through my body, a tiny shock of electricity. It had been nearly ten months since the murders, but it still felt like a dream. It was a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from. It was my life.

Haywood cleared his throat. “Do you recognize the defendant?” he asked, gesturing to the bookcase to his right. In our imaginary courtroom, that’s where Dustin would be sitting. I obediently looked in that direction.

“Yes, I do.”

“Who is he?”

“Dustin Adams, Kate Barrett’s brother.” I froze again. “Half brother, shit, sorry.” I anxiously scratched at my neck with my ragged fingernails, no doubt leaving angry red welts on my skin.

“No, say whatever feels natural. You’re allowed to correct yourself.”

“He’s Kate’s brother. Her half brother, technically, but they never made the distinction.”

Haywood nodded, making a note in his dossier. “Good, that’s good.” He looked at me again, assuming his courtroom posture and voice. “And how well do you know the defendant? Did you see him often?”

“I don’t know him…,” I started, then stopped. “That makes it sound like I lied about recognizing him.”

My mom touched my arm encouragingly. “You do know him, honey. You weren’t close, but you do know him.” I pulled my arm away from her hand instinctively. We hadn’t been getting along lately.

“I don’t know him… well.” I looked to Haywood, and he nodded. “He was around when we were younger, but he left for college when Kate was eleven. He came home during breaks, but I never really saw him much.” I paused again and looked at Haywood carefully. “Until the night he killed my friends.”

Haywood laughed, a thin and breathless sound. “You don’t have to lower your voice every time you say it.” I frowned at him. His laugh left me uneasy. He waved his hand between us, as though gesturing to the awkward thickness of the air. “Sorry, Corey, sorry. I shouldn’t’ve laughed. I’d tell you to lighten up, but I know you can’t.”

“Not for this,” I said.

“Not for this,” he agreed, rearranging his papers. “We’ve been doing this nearly an hour. Should we take a break or keep going?”

I shook my head. “I’m meeting a friend for a group study,” I told him warily. “Exams are starting really soon. I don’t want the trial to affect my grades.” My mother patted me on the arm again, a pleased little smile turning up the corners of her mouth. She was glad I’d met some new people in college, made friends. She thought it made it easier, but it didn’t, really. I still felt their absence like a physical hole, sometimes, or worse, like a presence just next to me, never quite going away.

“You’re going to be great up there, kiddo,” Haywood said, and I nodded humbly, still feeling quite strange about the whole thing, the “kiddo”s and the “sport”s and the pats on the head when he walked by.

In the car my mom was silent. She clearly wanted to say something, but every time she parted her lips, she pursed and then closed them again, pinching them together in a sticky lipstick pout. I turned away and looked out the window for most of the drive from Haywood’s office to the university. Traffic was bad for three o’clock, and it took us nearly half an hour to cross town.

I shot Abby a quick text message letting her know I would be late.
Had an appointment, stuck in traffic. On my way
, I typed out neatly, refusing to use abbreviations unless I was in a desperate rush. The car jerked to a stop as I sent it, nearly touching the bumper of the Prius in front of us.

“Learn how to
drive
,” my mother said under her breath, slamming her hand down on the steering wheel in frustration. “Damn teenagers.” I didn’t point out that she had a teenager in her car. One who was a fairly competent driver, though I still only had my learner’s permit.

When she pulled into the designated drop-off loop in front of the school library, my mom put her hand out to prevent me from undoing my seat belt. I looked at her, eyebrows raised.

“I’m late meeting my friend,” I said.

“She can wait a minute longer.” Anxiously, my mom jerked her hand away from me and placed it on the steering wheel, wrapping all her fingers around it tightly. “Corey, I have to tell you some—”

“I really don’t have time right now,” I said, undoing my seat belt before she had time to stop me again. I slipped my phone in my pocket and climbed out of the car. Leaning back in I added, “Tell me over dinner!” and then slammed the door in her face. It felt incredibly satisfying.