The Silence of Murder (7 page)

“Yes. Rita shoved in front of me and stood in the doorway so they couldn’t get in. ‘What do you want with Jeremy?’ she shouted.” I figure it’s okay to leave out some of the four-letter words Rita used. “ ‘We need to talk with him. There’s been an accident, Rita,’ Sheriff said.

“So Rita asked what kind of accident. And the sheriff told her that Coach Johnson had been found murdered.

“Rita gasped, and tears filled up her eyes. I thought she was going to pass out, so I took hold of her. But she shook me off and glared back at the sheriff and told him to stay right where he was unless he had a search warrant. He said he was waiting on one right now, and she said he would just have to wait then, wouldn’t he.

“Then she slammed the door right in Sheriff Wells’s face and told me to go and check on Jeremy while she kept an eye on the police. So I ran to Jer’s room and knocked and hollered and knocked. Only he didn’t come. And I got so scared that I went in anyway.” I stop then because my mind is flashing back to my brother, sitting on the floor, in the corner, in nothing but his boxers, rocking back and forth and staring at the wall as if he were watching a movie, which I suppose he was in a way.

Keller turns to me, and his voice is soft. “I know this isn’t easy for you, Hope, but would you please tell the court what you saw when you entered Jeremy’s room?”

I take a deep breath. “I saw Jeremy, but I’m not sure he saw me. He wouldn’t look at me, so I sat down on the floor
with him and tried to hold him. I sat there with him until Sheriff Wells got his warrant and barged into the room.”

“What happened next?”

“They tore up his room. They searched under the bed and took photos of everything, including me and Jeremy. Then they searched his closet.”

“And what did they find in your brother’s closet?”

I know this whole courtroom, except for me, has probably already heard exactly what they found. They’ve probably seen pictures. Maybe they’ve even seen it for themselves. “A bat.”

“Was it a wooden bat?” Keller asks.

I nod. “Yes.”

“And even though most of the Panthers use metal bats for the league, what kind of bat did Jeremy own? What kind of bat had Coach given him?”

“A Louisville Slugger.”

Keller bows his head. “Metal or wooden?”

“Wooden,” I admit.

Keller is silent for at least a minute, probably letting that answer soak in. I wish I knew if the jurors were picturing everything in their heads the way I am. I hope not.

“Hope,” Keller asks at last, “do you love your brother?”

“Yes!” I exclaim, looking directly at Jeremy now. He gazes up at me, the touch of a grin on his bony face. “I love Jeremy more than anybody in the whole world.”

“I’ll bet you’d do just about anything for him, wouldn’t you?”

I lock gazes with Jeremy and will him to take this in.
“I would do anything in the world for my brother. He’s the most important thing in my life.”

“I can see that,” Keller says, like he understands. “Let’s go back to your earlier testimony, if you don’t mind.”

I’m grateful to go back, to go anywhere that’s not June eleventh.

“When did Jeremy start collecting jars? Can you remember?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe when he was nine.”

“And were you upset by your brother’s troubling hobby?”

“I wasn’t, but Rita was. If I missed a jar under his bed, it could smell up the whole room pretty quick.”

Keller wrinkles his nose as if he can smell sour mustard right now. “Empty jars … You have to admit it’s a pretty unusual hobby.”

“No. I don’t admit that at all. People collect all sorts of things.”

“Like …?”

“Like stamps and spoons and bells, for example. Like sea glass.” I finger my necklace. I made it out of a tiny, smooth piece of glass T.J. gave me two years ago.

“True,” Keller mutters, agreeing with me.

“Or even Barbie dolls. People pay hundreds of dollars for old Barbies, don’t they? If you ask me, I’d say
that’s
crazy.”

Keller laughs a little, and so do a couple of the jurors. I’m thinking my testimony today is going better than it did yesterday.

“What do you admire most about your brother, Hope?”

I can’t believe it’s the prosecution asking me this. Raymond
should have asked this a long time ago. “A lot of things.” I smile at Jeremy. He’s smiling back at me, and I see the old Jeremy peeking out. “My brother is the kindest person I know. He loves the little things, like watching ants carry bits of food on a trail, or hearing people laugh, or seeing the sun go down every single evening. He gets excited when an acorn falls from a branch and lands at his feet, or a leaf spins in the air. He calls them God-gifts. That’s what he writes on his pad for me when he sees a butterfly or a deer, or whenever he makes out a cool shape in a sky full of clouds.”

“Jeremy dropped out of school in the eighth grade, didn’t he?” Keller asks.

“That was more Rita’s doing than Jeremy’s. Jer never caused any trouble, except with teachers who were too lazy to read his writing instead of getting the answers out of his mouth. Have you seen Jeremy’s handwriting?”

“No, I haven’t,” Keller says, as if he’d really like to.

“It’s beautiful. Jer’s own brand of calligraphy.”

“Why do
you
think your brother can’t talk, Hope?”

“He
can
talk. I know because I heard him when we were younger. He just stopped one day. That’s all. But he doesn’t really need to talk because he communicates just fine—with his notes and his gestures. Jeremy can say more with his eyes than most people can in a whole speech.”

Keller laughs. “I know exactly what you mean. We lawyers hear a lot of those speeches. We even give a few ourselves.” He gets some chuckles from the spectators. “Do you have anything else you want to tell us about your brother, Hope, before I let you go?”

Raymond was wrong about this guy. I think Keller
gets
Jeremy. Maybe
he
should have been Jeremy’s lawyer. “Thanks,” I tell him. “There are a lot of things I could tell you about my brother. Jeremy is trustworthy. He took good care of the team equipment. And he was so responsible at the stable—he never missed a day of work or complained about the messiest stalls or anything. He has a sense of humor, and … and he loves me. I’d do anything for Jer, and he’d do anything for me. I know that.”

Keller smiles at me. “Sounds like a normal brother to me.” He turns from me and repeats this to the jury. “Absolutely and completely normal.”

And that’s when I see what he’s done. What
I’ve
done. What I’ve done to Jeremy. “No! Wait! I didn’t mean—!”

“I have no more questions for the witness, Your Honor.”

“But—!”

“You may step down now, Miss Long,” says the judge. “The court will take a short recess.” She bangs her gavel. All I can think is that it sounds like a hammer, the hammer that nails Jeremy’s coffin shut.

And it’s all my fault.

I don’t know how long I
sit in the witness chair while the courtroom clears. Finally, T.J. comes up and gets me. He leads me through the courtroom. The second we step into the hallway, reporters start shouting my name: “Hope, over here, honey!” “Ms. Long!”

I stare at them, their faces blurred, their words nothing more than static. I don’t know whether to run through the mob or find a corner and curl myself into it and rock like Jeremy did that morning.

T.J. jerks me back into the courtroom and slams the doors shut. “There’s got to be another way out of here.” He glances at the little door that swallows my brother every day when he leaves the courtroom. “Besides that one,” T.J. mutters.

Together, as if somebody’s pointing a gun at us, we back farther into the courtroom. T.J.’s head swivels in every direction. Then he shouts, “Chase!” He’s staring up into the gallery. I look too and see Chase, still sitting in his balcony seat. “You know another way out of here?” T.J. hollers up.

For a second, Chase doesn’t answer. Then he pushes himself out of his seat, and I think he’s going to leave without answering T.J. Slowly, he points to the side stairs that lead to the gallery.

T.J. takes my hand, and we climb to where Chase is, in the small balcony area, where it’s even hotter and stickier than the witness stand. The gallery smells like sweat, smoke, and furniture polish.

None of us says a word as Chase leads the way, threading through the wooden fold-down chairs, pushing up each seat so we can get past. He stops at a skinny door. There’s a big silver alarm on the doorpost. He takes out his pocketknife and does something to the alarm. His back is to me, so I don’t see what he does. But he knows what he’s doing. He’s obviously done it before, somewhere. He turns around and sticks the knife back into his pocket. “We’re going down the fire escape. Are you both good with that?”

I nod. Then I remember T.J.’s afraid of heights. If Jer and I sit on the top bleacher at a practice, T.J. won’t come up. “You don’t have to,” I tell him.

“I’m fine,” he says, but the pupils of his eyes are too big, and his voice too high.

I don’t let go of his hand as we follow Chase, taking each black metal step, clang-clanging with every move on the rickety ladder. I expect to descend into a pool of reporters and spectators, who will swallow me whole.

But nobody’s there when we reach the bottom. I glance back at T.J., asking, without words, if he’s okay. He nods, his face cloud white, his glasses crooked. I squeeze his hand before letting go.

“I’m parked back here,” Chase says. We haven’t asked for a ride, but we follow him. The sun has already set, leaving the sky a mess of gray.

We get into the backseat like before, and Chase starts the car. He eases around the side of the courthouse, then away from the throng of people forming on the courthouse lawn.

When we’re safely away, T.J. and Chase exchange words in low tones, but all I hear are empty voices. My mind is back in the courthouse, on the witness stand, going over all the things I should have said … and all the things I shouldn’t have.

We’re halfway to Grain before I try to speak. Even then, I’m scared I won’t be able to hold back the tears that are so hot and thick they’re clinging to my throat. “I can’t believe I did that to Jeremy. I should have let those reporters tear me apart, piece by piece. I deserve it.”

“Don’t beat yourself up, Hope,” T.J. says. We’re sitting as far apart as possible. I’m gripping the door handle.

“You didn’t say anything wrong,” Chase whispers, so soft I’m not sure he really said it.

“Are you kidding?” I’m too loud, but my heart is pounding in my ears. “Raymond and I practiced, but not for that. Not for
those
questions. That prosecutor, Keller, he tricked me. He got me to say exactly what he wanted, that my brother is strange, but not insane. I’ll never forgive myself if I—”

Nobody except Jeremy has ever seen me cry. I cover my face and try not to let out the sobs that rack my body. But I can’t control anything. I hear the animal noises coming from me as if they’re from someone, or something, else. T.J. reaches out his hand, but I don’t take it. “I thought I was doing so
great,” I say between sobs. “I wanted the jury to know Jer the way I do. Then they’d have to see that he couldn’t murder anybody. But all I did was make them see he’s not insane.”

“It’s not up to you, Hope,” T.J. says, sliding his fingers through his slicked-back hair. “And anyway, you did better than that fancy psychiatrist.”

I know T.J. is trying to help. But it’s not helping. My head’s pounding, and I feel like I’m going to throw up. This is no time for a migraine attack.

“Hope?” Chase’s voice is soft, but firm. He expects me to answer.

“What?”

“Did you say anything in court that you don’t believe?”

“No!”

“Do you believe your brother’s crazy?”

“Of course I don’t!”

“Well, then, you couldn’t say anything except what you did, could you? Not under oath.”

I don’t answer.

“What the jury saw today was a sister who loves her brother. That’s it. Jeremy’s attorney can still make a solid case for insanity.”

“But Jer’s not insane.” The fire has gone out of my voice. Out of me.

“Okay,” Chase says, not looking back at us, not glancing in the rearview. “But isn’t that the best outcome of the trial? If they find Jeremy insane, they’ll just send him to some kind of mental facility, right? And if he’s okay, they’ll see that and let him go eventually.”

“He’s right, Hope,” T.J. whispers.

I’m shaking my head. “Jeremy wouldn’t survive in a mental hospital. He needs to be with me. He needs me. We need each other.”

“Great,” Chase mutters. “That TV woman is there again.”

When I look up, I can’t believe we’re in front of my house. The blue van is parked in the same spot as yesterday. “I can’t face them. Not after what I did today. I don’t even want to face Rita.”

Chase does a one-eighty and heads north. “Where do you want to go?”

“We can go to my house,” T.J. offers.

In a few minutes, we’re walking up to the Bowers’s two-story white house. There’s not much of a front yard, but what there is looks like a green carpet. Impatiens hang in baskets from the front porch, and black-eyed Susans form gold-and-brown clumps big as bushes against the house.

T.J. goes in first. “Hey! Anybody home?”

His mother comes downstairs carrying a laundry basket. “That you, Tommy?” T.J.’s real name is Thomas James, but his mom is the only one who calls him Tommy. When she sees Chase and me, she balances the basket on her hip and pushes thin strands of brown hair out of her freckled face. “Well, how are you, Hope? Good to see you too, Chase.” If she’s surprised to see him, she doesn’t show it.

I’m
surprised he’s still here, and I’m pretty sure I’m showing it. He tried dropping us off, but T.J. wouldn’t have it. Chase is hanging back, close to the door, like he’s ready to bolt first chance he gets.

T.J. takes the laundry basket from his mom. “We need
someplace to hide out for a while. Reporters are all over Hope’s lawn.”

“What a shame.” She shakes her head, then smiles at me. “You know you’re always welcome here, Hope.” I thank her, sure that she means it. Her smile passes to Chase, who reaches for the doorknob. “You too, son. Say, are you kids hungry? I’d be happy to make you something to eat. Plenty of time before I have to get ready for the night shift.” Mrs. Bowers has worked at the Oh-Boy cookie factory longer than any other employee, so she could have the day shift if she wanted. But T.J. says she started working nights the year they adopted him so somebody would be home all the time. She got used to the hours, and now she can’t imagine working days.