Defending Jacob

by William Landay

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Not necessarily but very likely, isn’t it, Detective?”

  “It’s likely.”

  “And of course in a stabbing, the attacker has to stand quite close to the victim, within arm’s length, obviously?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where it would be impossible to avoid the spray?”

  “I didn’t use the word spray.”

  “Where it would be impossible to avoid the cast-off blood?”

  “I can’t say that for sure.”

  “And the description of Jacob with blood on him as he arrived at school that morning—you heard this from his friend Derek Yoo, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what Derek Yoo described was that Jacob had some small amounts of blood on his right hand, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “None on his clothes?”

  “No.”

  “None on his face or anywhere else on his body?”

  “No.”

  “On his shoes?”

  “No.”

  “All of which is perfectly consistent with the explanation Jacob gave his friend Derek Yoo, isn’t it, that he discovered the body after the attack and then he touched it with his right hand?”

  “It is consistent, yes, but not the only possible explanation.”

  “And of course Jacob did go to school that morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “He was in school just minutes after the murder, we know that, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “When does school start at the McCormick?”

  “Eight thirty-five.”

  “And when was the time of the murder, according to the M.E., if you know?”

  “Sometime between eight and eight-thirty.”

  “But Jacob was in his seat in school at eight thirty-five with no blood on him at all?”

  “Yes.”

  “And if I were to suggest to you, hypothetically, that the story Jacob wrote that impressed you so much—that you described as virtually a written confession—if I were to show you evidence that Jacob did not make up the facts in that story, that all the details in the story were already well known among the students at the McCormick School, would that affect your thinking about how important it was as evidence?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, of course!”

  Duffy looked at him poker-faced. His job here was to say as little as possible, to pare away every extra word. Volunteering details could only help the defense.

  “Now, on this question of Andy Barber’s role in the investigation, are you suggesting that your friend Andy did anything wrong or inappropriate here?”

  “No.”

  “Can you point to any errors or suspicious decisions he made?”

  “No.”

  “Anything you questioned then or now?”

  “No.”

  “There was some mention of this man Leonard Patz. Even knowing what we know now, does it seem inappropriate to you that Patz was once considered a legitimate suspect?”

  “No.”

  “No, because in the early stages of an investigation, you pursue every reasonable lead, you cast your net as wide as possible, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “In fact, if I told you that Andy Barber still believes that Patz was the real killer in this case, would that surprise you, Lieutenant?”

  Duffy made a little frown. “No. That’s what he always believed.”

  “Isn’t it also true that you were the detective who brought Leonard Patz to Mr. Barber’s attention in the first place?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And was Andy Barber’s judgment about homicide investigations generally reliable?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did it seem odd to you in any way that Andy Barber wanted to pursue an investigation of Leonard Patz for Ben Rifkin’s murder?”

  “Odd? No. It made sense, based on the limited information we had at the time.”

  “And yet the investigation of Patz was never seriously pursued, was it?”

  “It was stopped once the decision was made to indict Jacob Barber, yes.”

  “And who made that decision, to stop focusing on Patz?”

  “The district attorney, Lynn Canavan.”

  “Did she make that decision alone?”

  “No, I believe she was advised by Mr. Logiudice.”

  “Was there any evidence at the time that excluded Leonard Patz as a suspect?”

  “No.”

  “Has any evidence ever come up that clears him directly?”

  “No.”

  “No. Because that angle was simply dropped, wasn’t it?”

  “I suppose.”

  “It was dropped because Mr. Logiudice wanted it dropped, no?”

  “There was a discussion among all the investigators, including the district attorney and Mr. Logiudice—”

  “It was dropped because in that discussion Mr. Logiudice pushed to have it dropped, isn’t that right?”

  “Well, we’re here now, so obviously yes.” There was a trace of exasperation in Duffy’s voice.

  “So, even knowing what we know now, do you have any doubts about your friend Andrew Barber’s integrity?”

  “No.” Duffy thought about it, or pretended to. “No, I don’t think Andy ever had any suspicions about Jacob.”

  “You don’t think Andy suspected anything?”

  “No.”

  “The boy’s own father, who lived with him his whole life? He did not know anything?”

  Duffy shrugged. “I can’t say for sure. But I don’t think so.”

  “How is it possible to live with a child for fourteen years and know so little about him?”

  “I can’t say for sure.”

  “No. In fact, you’ve known Jacob all his life too, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And initially you had no suspicions about Jacob either, did you?”

  “No.”

  “In all those years, it never seemed to you there was anything dangerous about Jacob? You had no reason to suspect him, did you?”

  “No.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Objection. Request that Mr. Klein not add his own commentary to the witness’s answers.”

  “Sustained.”

  “My apologies,” Jonathan said with a great show of insincerity. “Nothing further.”

  The judge: “Mr. Logiudice. Redirect?”

  Logiudice considered. He might have left it there. Certainly he had enough to argue to the jury that I was crooked and had hijacked the investigation to cover for my crazy kid. Hell, he did not even have to argue it; the jury had heard it intimated several times in testimony. In any event, I was not the one on trial here. He could have just taken his winnings and moved on. But he was puffed up from his newfound momentum. You could see in his face that he felt himself in the grip of a grand inspiration. He seemed to believe the kill shot was right there within reach. Another little boy in a grown-up’s body, unable to resist the cookie jar in front of him.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” he said, and went to a spot directly in front of the witness stand.

  A little rustle in the courtroom.

  “Detective Duffy, you say you have no reservations at all about the way Andrew Barber conducted this case?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Because he didn’t know anything, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Objection. Leading. This is a prosecution witness.”

  “He can have it.”

  “And how long would you say you’ve known Andy Barber, how many years?”

  “Objection. Relevance.”

  “Overruled.”

  “I guess I’ve known Andy over twenty years.”

  “So you know him pretty well?”

  “Yes.”

  “Inside and out?”

  “Sure.”

  “When
did you learn that his father is a murderer?” Boom.

  Jonathan and I both shot out of our seats, jostling the table. “Objection!”

  “Sustained! The witness is instructed not to answer that question and the jury is to disregard it! Give it no weight. Treat the question as if it was never asked.” Judge French turned to the lawyers. “I’ll see counsel at sidebar right now.”

  I did not go with Jonathan to the sidebar conference so, again, I am quoting the judge’s whispered comments from the trial transcript. But I did watch the judge as he spoke, and I can tell you he was obviously furious. Red-faced, he put his hands on the edge of the judge’s bench and leaned over to hiss at Logiudice.

  “I am shocked, I’m stunned you did that. I explicitly told you in no uncertain terms not to go there or I would declare a mistrial. What do you have to say, Mr. Logiudice?”

  “It was defense counsel who chose to cross on this question of the character of the defendant’s father and the integrity of the investigation. If he chooses to make that an issue, the prosecution is perfectly entitled to argue its side of the case. I was just following up on Mr. Klein’s line of questioning. He specifically raised the issue of whether the defendant’s father had any reason to suspect his son.”

  “Mr. Klein, I presume you are going to move for a mistrial.”

  “Yup.”

  “Step back.”

  The lawyers went back to their respective tables.

  Judge French remained standing to address the jury, as was his habit. He even unzipped his robe a bit and gripped the edge of its collar as if he were posing for a statue. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am instructing you to ignore that last question. Strike it from your minds entirely. There is a saying in the law that ‘you cannot unring the bell,’ but I’m going to ask you to do just that. The question was improper and the prosecutor should not have asked it, and I want you to be aware of that. Now, I am going to dismiss you for the day while the court attends to other business. The sequestration order remains in place. I remind you not to talk about this case with anybody at all. Do not listen to media reports about it or read about it in the newspapers. Turn off your radios and TVs. Block yourself off from it entirely. All right, the jury is dismissed. We’ll see you tomorrow morning, nine o’clock sharp.”

  The jury filed out, exchanging looks with each other. A few of them stole glances at Logiudice.

  When they were gone, the judge said, “Mr. Klein.”

  Jonathan stood. “Your Honor, the defendant moves for a mistrial. This issue was the subject of extensive pretrial discussion, the upshot of which was that the issue is so volatile and so prejudicial that mentioning it would result in a mistrial. This was the third rail that the prosecution was explicitly told not to touch. Now he has.”

  The judge massaged his forehead.

  Jonathan continued, “If the court is not inclined to declare a mistrial, the defendant will move to expand its witness list by two: Leonard Patz and William Barber.”

  “William Barber is the defendant’s grandfather?”

  “Correct. I may need a governor’s warrant to get him transported here. But if the prosecution insists on this bizarre insinuation that the defendant somehow is guilty by inheritance, that he is a member of a criminal family, born a murderer, then we have a right to rebut that.”

  The judge stood there a moment, grinding his molars. “I’ll take it under advisement. I’ll give you my decision in the morning. Court is adjourned till nine o’clock tomorrow.”

  Mr. Logiudice: Before we move on, Mr. Barber, about that knife, the one that was thrown in the lake to throw off the investigators. Do you have any idea who might have planted that knife?

  Witness: Of course. I knew from the start.

  Mr. Logiudice: Did you? And how’s that?

  Witness: The knife was missing from our kitchen.

  Mr. Logiudice: An identical knife?

  Witness: A knife that matched the description I’d been given. I’ve since seen the knife that was recovered from the pond, when we were shown the state’s evidence. It’s our knife. It was old, pretty distinctive. It did not match the set. I recognized it.

  Mr. Logiudice: Then it was thrown in the pond by someone in your family?

  Witness: Of course.

  Mr. Logiudice: Jacob? To deflect any inference of guilt from the actual knife he owned?

  Witness: No. Jake was too smart for that. And I was too. I knew what the wounds looked like; I’d talked to the forensics people. I knew that knife couldn’t have made Ben Rifkin’s wounds.

  Mr. Logiudice: Laurie, then? Why?

  Witness: Because we believed in our son. He told us he didn’t do it. We didn’t want to see his life ruined just because he’d been foolish enough to buy a knife. We knew people would see that knife and jump to the wrong conclusion. We talked about the danger of it. So Laurie decided to give the cops another knife. The only problem was, she was the least sophisticated among the three of us about these things and she was also the most upset. She was not careful enough. She chose the wrong sort of knife. She left a loose end.

  Mr. Logiudice: Did she talk to you before she did this?

  Witness: Before, no.

  Mr. Logiudice: After, then?

  Witness: I confronted her. She did not deny it.

  Mr. Logiudice: And what did you say to this person who’d just interfered with a homicide investigation?

  Witness: What did I say? I said I wished she’d talked to me first. I would have given her the right knife to throw.

  Mr. Logiudice: Is that really how you feel now, Andy? That this is all a joke? Do you really have so little respect for what we do here?

  Witness: When I said that to my wife, I assure you I wasn’t joking. Let’s leave it at that.

  Mr. Logiudice: All right. Continue with your story.

  When we got back to our car in the garage a block from the courthouse, there was a white piece of paper tucked under the windshield wiper. It was quarter-folded. Opening it, I read,

  JUDGMENT DAY IS COMING

  MURDERER, YOU DIE

  Jonathan was still with us, making it a group of four. He frowned at the note and slipped it into his briefcase. “I’ll take care of this. I’ll file a report with the Cambridge police. You all go home.”

  Laurie said, “That’s all we can do?”

  “We should let the Newton police know too, just in case,” I suggested. “Maybe it’s time we had a cruiser camped out by our house. The world’s full of lunatics.”

  I was distracted by a figure standing in the corner of the garage, quite a distance away but obviously watching us. He was an older man, near seventy probably. He wore a jacket, golf shirt, and scally cap. Looked like a million guys around Boston. Some old mick tough. He was lighting a cigarette—it was the flare of his lighter that caught my eye—and the glowing tip of the cigarette linked him with the car that had been parked outside our house a few nights before, the interior blacked out except for the little glowing firefly of a cigarette tip in the car window. And wasn’t he just the sort of dinosaur to drive a Lincoln frickin’ Town Car?

  Our eyes met for a moment. He thrust his lighter into his pants pocket and continued walking, out through a doorway to a staircase, and he was gone. Had he been walking before I saw him? He seemed to have been standing and staring, but I had only just glanced over. Maybe he had just stopped a moment before to light the cigarette.

  “Did you see that guy?”

  Jonathan: “What guy?”

  “That guy who was just over there looking at us.”

  “Didn’t see him. Who was he?”

  “I don’t know. Never seen him before.”

  “You think he had something to do with the note?”

  “Don’t know. I don’t even know if he was looking at us. But he seemed to be, you know?”

  “Come on,” Jonathan encouraged us toward the car, “there are a lot of people looking at us lately. It’ll be over soon.”

  31 | Ha
nging Up

  Around six that night, as the three of us finished our dinner—Jacob and I indulging ourselves in a little cautious optimism, spitting on Logiudice and his desperate tactics; Laurie trying to keep up the appearance of confidence and normalcy, even as she had become vaguely suspicious of the both of us—the phone rang.

  I answered. An operator informed me that she had a collect call. Would I accept the charges? It came as a surprise that people still made collect calls. Was this a prank? Were there any phone booths left to make a collect call from? Only in prisons.

  “Collect call from who?”

  “Bill Barber.”

  “Jesus. No, I won’t accept. Wait a minute, hang on.” I held the phone against my chest, as if my heart would speak to him directly. Then: “All right, I’ll accept the charges.”

  “Thank you. Please hold while I connect you. Have a nice day.”

  A click.

  “Hallo?”

  “What is it?”

  “What is it? I thought you was gonna come down and visit me again.”

  “I’ve been a little busy.”

  He mimicked me, “Oh, I been a little busy. Relax, would ya? I’m just shittin’ ya, you dope. Wha’d ya think? Hey, come on down, junior, I’ll take ya out fishin’! I’ll take you fishin’—you know for what? For fishes!” I had no idea what this meant. Some prison slang, presumably. Whatever it meant, the joke was funny to him. He roared into the phone.

  “Jesus Christ, you talk a lot.”

  “No shit, ’cause I got no one to talk to in this fuckin’ place. My kid never visits me.”

  “Was there something you wanted? Or did you just call to chat?”

  “I want to know how the kid’s trial is going.”

  “What do you care?”

  “He’s my grandson. I want to know.”

  “His whole life you never even knew his name.”

  “Whose fault is that?”

  “Yours.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure you think that.” A pause.

  “I heard my name came up in court today. We’re following the whole thing here. It’s like the World Series for cons.”

  “Yeah, your name came up. See, even sitting in prison, you’re still screwing your family over.”

  “Oh, junior, don’t be such a pisser. The kid’s gonna get off.”