Silent Witness (37 page)

‘I know Sam very well,' Tony said. ‘In high school, I was his best friend.'

‘You were also suspected of murder. Until they found the black man who killed that lovely girl.'

Her voice had filled with distaste. Tony caught the implication at once – for Sarah Croff, his redemption through the exposure of a black man had resonance for Sam Robb. ‘Yes,' he answered, ‘I was lucky.'

‘You were
blessed
. But then the press always sensationalizes things, doesn't it. That's why I feel so sorry for Sam Robb and his family.'

Much sorrier, Tony felt quite certain, than she had ever been for Tony Lord, the Catholic from a Polish neighborhood in Steelton. Silent, Tony took his seat next to Saul, gazing around her living room, scarcely bigger than a railroad car, yet filled with lithographs of what she must imagine to be the natural order of things, all derived from the nineteenth century: pastorals, hunting pictures of horses ridden by men in breeches, a full-masted schooner. A Valhalla for white folks, Tony thought mordantly – Sarah Croff seemed like the kind of woman who had traced her lineage through generations of Methodists and Presbyterians, confident that her family tree contained no ethnic horrors. The strength of his renewed dislike for her impressed him; more than he would have liked, Lake City lived within him still.

‘Can you tell me about Ernie Nixon?' he asked.

Nodding briskly, she sat across from him on a cane-back chair. ‘What struck me was that poor girl, Marcie Calder, though I didn't know her name until I saw her picture in the
Steelton Press
. As soon as Mr. Nixon's wife moved out, she began coming over to see him.' Her mouth pursed. ‘The first few times, they sat on the front porch and talked. Later, they stayed inside.'

Her tone was chaste, as if to convey that she preferred not to consider the implications of this but could not avoid it. ‘How often did she come?' Tony asked.

‘Four or five times, I saw her – usually on weekends. After a while, all I'd see was her car, a red compact of some kind.' She folded her arms, adding in a defensive stare, ‘I'm not an eavesdropper, Mr. Lord. But it stuck in my mind – a pretty girl that age, coming to see a man whose wife has gone off, so that he's living as single. I couldn't help but wonder.'

You
surely couldn't, Tony thought. As if reading his mind, Sarah Croff added, ‘But it was none of
my
business, after all.'

She was not a fool. ‘I understand.' Tony said carefully. ‘And no one
wants
to think poorly of their neighbors. Unless it's unavoidable.'

Sarah Croff hunched in her chair, giving her thin frame an air as doleful as her expression. ‘It wasn't,' she said, ‘until that evening.'

Feeling Saul stir with interest, Tony permitted her a decent interval of silence. ‘Tell me about it,' he said.

For the next few moments, listening to her parched voice, Tony imagined the scene as she described it.

It was dusk. Preparing to close the curtains to her living room, Sarah Croff saw that Marcie Calder's car was in his driveway.

It stopped her for a moment: this was the first time she had seen the red car at night. Where were the girl's parents? she wondered. Then the front door opened, and Marcie Calder came out.

Ernie Nixon was right behind her. She was in a hurry, not looking back at him, long hair swirling around her face. Then he caught up to her on the stone path to his driveway.

Marcie stopped abruptly, facing him. Soundless, they were like two quarreling figures in a pantomime. His body seemed taut with anguish. From a distance, her pretty face was a mask of distress and indecision, and she seemed to be fighting tears.

Suddenly she turned from him, walking quickly toward the car.

When Ernie Nixon grabbed her arm, Sarah stiffened.

Marcie herself froze, staring at the black fingers on her arm, then at Ernie's face. Her lips moved briefly, and his hand dropped to his side.

Almost gently, Marcie touched his shoulder, and walked slowly to the car.

He stood there, defeated, as she backed the red car from his driveway.

When she disappeared, something seemed to snap in him. Hurriedly, he opened his garage, got into his station wagon, and backed out the car so quickly that his tires crossed the lawn. The last thing Sarah Croff saw were his red taillights in the dusk, pursuing Marcie Calder.

‘I closed the curtains,' Sarah Croff said now. ‘You don't want people peering into your living room at night. But it wasn't right. Frankly, it reminded me of that terrible Simpson thing.'

Her eyes reflected genuine fear, as if, in retrospect, she had seen the prelude to a tragedy. Even Tony felt his own frisson.

‘This was the night she died?' he asked.

‘Yes.' Sarah Croff shut her eyes. ‘The next day was when I saw her picture.'

Shifting his weight, Saul leaned forward. ‘Why didn't you call the police, Mrs. Croff?'

She stiffened. ‘I'm not a busybody,' she answered in a brittle voice. ‘I thought the police could handle it themselves.'

So she
knows
, Tony thought: the woman's a racist and does not wish to be exposed as one, obsessively watching her black neighbor's house. The fear had distorted her conduct, and, for a time, Ernie Nixon had benefited. But no more.

Fearful, she looked from Saul to Tony. ‘Will I have to testify?' she asked.

For a moment, Tony felt almost sorry for her. Gently, he answered, ‘I hope not.'

Outside, Tony stood by his car, letting the bright sun dissipate the mustiness of Sarah Croff's living room. ‘Oh, Marcie,' he murmured, ‘what a busy girl you were.'

‘What do you think
that
was all about?' Saul asked.

‘Other than this woman's Othello complex? Nothing good for Ernie Nixon. Maybe there's an innocent explanation, but it surely isn't covered by anything that Ernie chose to tell me.'

Saul glanced back at the house. ‘Put her on the stand, Tony, and she'll make it sound like a lovers' quarrel. If he doesn't have an alibi that night, she's truly a gift from God.'

Tony nodded. ‘I'm going to see him now. It's the least I can do.'

‘Very decent of you,' Saul said dryly. ‘You also want Sal Russo to find Ernie's wife, I assume.'

Tony fished out his car keys. ‘I'm afraid so,' he answered, and drove away.

Tony found Ernie on a bench by the baseball field, eating his lunch from a brown paper bag. Sitting beside him, Tony recalled the afternoon of the Stratford game, when Ernie had sat on the empty bench with Tony. But Ernie had come to console him; for Tony, this underscored the conflict between his duties to Sam Robb and what those duties had come to involve.

Turning, Ernie regarded him with a silent impassivity that suggested that he had expected Tony, and that the visit was not welcome. ‘Shall we start all over again?' Tony asked.

At once, Ernie's sensitive face took on the defensive opacity Tony recognized from all those years ago. ‘What do you mean?'

That Tony was Sam's lawyer, he now knew, had made them enemies from the start: then, Ernie had misled him; now, Ernie was probing to see how much Tony knew. Instead of obliging him, Tony asked simply, ‘Did
you
kill her, Ernie?'

Ernie's face twisted; for a moment, he lost control, staring at Tony with a fear that seemed years deep. When he stood, walking away, his pained expression reminded Tony of someone forced to look at the sun until he no longer could. He stood by the pitcher's mound, staring at the ground with his arms folded.

‘I'll have to take this to the prosecutor,' Tony said. ‘You know that.'

Slowly, Ernie looked at him, bitterness in his eyes. ‘You think I didn't tell them, just like I didn't tell you, because I've got some terrible thing to hide. That'll make a nice story come trial time, won't it? Sure worked for
you
well enough, with Alison Taylor. No reason not to try it out for Sam –'

‘Quit playing the martyr,' Tony snapped. ‘You lied about Marcie Calder, and now I've caught you at it.'

Ernie stood straighter. ‘Lied to
you
? Who are
you
that I owe you “the truth” about anything, all so you can set me up. What kind of truth are you after here? Because if Sam Robb has told you the
real
truth, and you're still in Lake City, you've become a lot worse human being than you've got any excuse for.'

Tony faced him. Softly, he said, ‘I've been here two minutes now. So far you've accused me of racism, amorality, and a conscious attempt to spring the killer of a teenage girl. If I'd known you'd be this pathetic, I'd have gone straight to Stella Marz.'

Ernie's mouth formed a smile of derisive anger. ‘To do what, Tony? Accuse me of fucking a sixteen-year-old white girl I cared for because some old biddy used to watch us from across the street? Got so we couldn't sit on the front porch anymore, what with her peeking at us all the time. That's what you've got, and it's
all
you've got, because there isn't any more
to
get. So go right ahead and see the prosecutor – don't let
me
get in your way.'

In his secret doubt, Tony hesitated. ‘Not quite all,' he said. ‘For example, where were you the night that Marcie Calder died?'

Ernie's smile vanished. ‘At home, in bed. Not an alibi in the world.' He tilted his head, asking softly, ‘So the old lady was peeping that night too?'

‘Don't blame it on her, Ernie. Or me. You saw Marcie Calder the night she died, and didn't brother to mention it to me. When I do with that whatever I decide a good defense lawyer should do, remind yourself that I came to you first.'

The anger died in Ernie's eyes. ‘Good luck,' Tony said, and turned to leave.

‘All right, Tony. You want to know what really happened?'

Tony faced him again, hands in his pockets, silent. In the sunlight, Ernie's gaze seemed hooded.

‘I knew it was trouble,' Ernie began, ‘from the moment I saw her face.'

Marcie stood in the doorway. She looked pale, lost. In her seeming disorientation, there was something waif-like about her – thin, lacking energy. The difference in her struck Ernie like a slap in the face.

‘Can I come in?' she asked.

Even the request was strange, like she was dragging trouble behind her. So that he hesitated a moment before saying, ‘Sure.' But her eagerness to come inside, her need for him, were touching – he was concerned for her, after all, and in some strange way, her company had consoled him once his wife and kids were gone. When she sat on the couch across from him, as she always did, he chided himself for his nameless apprehension.

‘What is it?' he asked.

She flicked her hair back with nervous fingers, forcing herself to look at him. Softly, she answered, ‘I'm pregnant.'

Ernie felt his own spirit drain from him. Sitting in the bare living room, among the scraps Dee had left to him – a couch, a chair, a picture of his kids – they seemed to Ernie like the last two people on earth. After a moment, he got up from the chair; Marcie met him in the middle of the room, leaning against him.

Silent, he held her, feeling her soft hair on his face. The only sound either of them made was Marcie's muffled crying. He stroked her hair as though she were his own wounded child.

‘Do your parents know?' he asked.

She shook her head, forehead still resting on his shoulder. ‘No one does, except my doctor. Not even Janice. Or him.'

It made him feel touched, and terribly sad. ‘What do you want to do?'

‘I don't know.' She leaned back, eyes still moist. ‘I'm telling him tonight.'

‘What about your folks?'

‘Not yet. I mean, I've only known for sure about the baby since this afternoon.' She swallowed. ‘This could ruin him, and I'm afraid of what my parents might do if they found out who he is –'

‘Marcie,' Ernie cut in gently. ‘You should worry about
you
. Let's talk about Marcie Calder for a while.'

He led Marcie to the couch again, holding her hand as he had never done before. She sat with her knees together, gazing at the floor. ‘You have choices,' he said. ‘You know that, don't you? This doesn't have to be a trap.'

She turned to him, eyes wider. ‘What do you mean?'

‘What I guess your doctor already told you, for one thing.'

Marcie bit her lower lip, to keep from crying. ‘I can't do that,' she said. ‘A fetus is a life.'

‘So are you, Marcie. Why pay such a price for the one mistake I know you'll never make again?'

She looked at him now, so sincere it broke his heart. ‘But it's a baby –
my
baby. How can I kill it for being my mistake?'

Ernie felt despair seep through him. ‘There's so much
to
this, Marcie. Like who cares for the child once it's here.'

‘I do.'

You're a child yourself
, Ernie wanted to say. But that surely would not work; before his eyes, he saw Marcie Calder assume the pseudo-maturity of a young girl whose biology had so outrun her experience that she was trying desperately to reconcile them. ‘You'd be living with your parents, Marcie. Your choice would be to drop out or ask your mom to raise the baby, and have them blame you for all the time it takes, the money it costs, the old-fashioned shame they're bound to feel.' As he talked, Ernie felt himself envision how grim her life could become. ‘Do you really think much good would come from that for anyone? Even the child?'