Naive

by Charles Royce

  “There is no indisputable evidence. The blood on Micah’s neck that their DNA expert claims is from the time of the stabbing could have easily been spattered during the life-saving measures Micah took that evening. And contrary to what the prosecution would have you believe, the older methods of blood analysis are inferior to the more current ones. The professional association, of which the prosecution’s expert witness is an active member, highly recommends discarding the practices that he himself used to analyze this crime scene. Plus, Micah was at a party that evening, dressed in a tuxedo, white shirt, no blood anywhere. He saw plenty of people, and no one reported him acting strangely or mysteriously.

  “There are no gaps in the timeline. There was an unusual amount of activity in the city that night, and the so-called gaps are no more than twenty-five minutes each way. Less time than a sitcom on TV when you bypass the commercials on your DVR.” Some of the jury members laugh.

  “Lastly, there is no confession. My client was distraught. He saw his best friend, his traveling partner, his husband of two years, gasping for his last breath and did the first thing that popped into his mind. He tried to save him the only way he knew how. And when he realized that what he did to help his husband actually harmed him further, he was distressed about his choices. As any of us would have been.

  “That’s all this case is about. A devoted husband wanting to save the love of his life. Save him from whatever, and whoever, happened to him earlier that night.

  “I ask you to find Micah Breuer not guilty on all counts and force the prosecution to explore the many other leads they ignored. Thank you.”

  Shawn sits back in his chair next to Micah.

  “Is there a rebuttal, Ms. Lerner?” Judge Wilson asks.

  “No, your Honor.”

  As the judge issues his instructions for the jury, Shawn turns to Micah, who is shaking.

  “Hey, buddy, what’s wrong? You gotta hold it together. We got this,” he says.

  “You keep saying that, but it’s gonna be”—his breath gets the best of him—“be bad, I can feel it.”

  Micah continues shaking, beginning to spiral out of control. Out of the side of his eyes, he sees one of the jurors do a double-take, and the adrenaline rush calms the episode.

  “You good?” Shawn asks.

  “No.”

  C h a p t e r 4 3

  “I know you may have felt pressure from us, but we wanted to tell you, no matter what happens, we appreciate you and all you have done for our son.”

  Elaine and her husband are standing in the doorway of Astrid Lerner’s office, but do not bother to come in.

  “I appreciate that, Elaine,” Astrid replies, setting aside some case notes on the Union Square murder. “I really do.”

  The phone rings.

  “We’ll let you get that,” Elaine says, pulling her husband’s hand.

  “Astrid Lerner,” she says into her iPhone.

  She pauses.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  C h a p t e r 4 4

  “All rise, court is now in session,” announces the court clerk. “The honorable Judge Christopher K. Wilson presiding.”

  Micah is dressed in his white T-shirt and jeans. Shawn is dressed in his suit from earlier in the day, but his tie is gone, and he is a bit drunk. He grabs Micah’s hand in nervous, excited anticipation.

  Astrid has situated herself at her table, tapping her phone with her fingernails. She has experienced a quick jury before, and the result is never good news.

  Having never gone home, Mr. and Mrs. Holcomb are standing next to the door. Jenna is sitting in front of them. Micah turns around to see who is in the courtroom.

  “You called Jenna?” he asks Shawn.

  “I texted her that there was a verdict. She didn’t text back. Is she here?”

  “Yes!”

  “Thank you,” Judge Wilson begins. “I know it’s late, so let’s move through this. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, it has been less than ten hours since I gave you instructions and sent you into deliberation. You have considered four counts, including second-degree murder, first- and second-degree manslaughter, and criminally negligent homicide. These are all very serious charges. Have you reached a verdict?”

  The jury foreperson, the same one who had performed the sign of the cross after saying that child-abusing priests should be hung by their testicles, stands up.

  “We have, your Honor,” he announces.

  “What say ye?”

  “We, the jury, in the case of The People versus Micah Breuer, in reference to the count of murder in the second degree, find the defendant, Micah James Breuer, not guilty.”

  Astrid flinches.

  “On the count of first-degree manslaughter, we, the jury, find the defendant, Micah James Breuer, not guilty.”

  “On the count of second-degree manslaughter, we, the jury, find the defendant, Micah James Breuer, not guilty.”

  As if she were hanging on these next words as if they were her last hope, Astrid looks behind her, searching for Elaine and Wallace Holcomb. They are nowhere to be found.

  “On the count of criminally negligent homicide, we, the jury, find the defendant, Micah James Breuer, not guilty.”

  Shawn grabs Micah’s hand even tighter, flings it around, and the two friends embrace each other.

  “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury for your service. You are excused.” says the judge. “This court is dismissed.”

  “Shawn, thank you, thank you, thank you,” Micah says into Shawn’s ear as they linger in their embrace.

  “It’s what we do,” Shawn says. “I’ll come see you in a few and take you home. Well, actually, you can spend the night with Haylee and me tonight. You shouldn’t be alone your first night back as a free man.”

  “Okay.” Micah smiles through his tears. “I think that’s a good idea.”

  They let go of each other, and Micah is taken away by the prison escort.

  “Well done, Mr. Connelly,” says a voice to his left. Astrid is still sitting, the arch in her back a bit more pronounced than before. Her folders and notes are in the same places as they were during the verdicts. “Not sure how that happened, but that’s justice for you.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Lerner.”

  “Do you really think he’s innocent?”

  “I’ve known him a long time. Yes, yes, I do.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Well,” he says, with a guttural chuckle. “Good thing you weren’t on that jury. Come on, Ms. Lerner, I’ll walk you out. You’ve got a killer to find.”

  They both pack up their things and leave out the side entrance.

  Jenna is still sitting. Aside from the bailiff, she is the last one there. She gets up, walks to the back of the courtroom, and turns around. The bailiff turns out the lights. Jenna remains silhouetted in the doorway.

  C h a p t e r 4 5

  The room is dark, though it is 7:20am. Again, Ghost finds himself huddled at a desk in front of a cracked, mustard-yellow wall interrupted only by a single tiny window, haphazardly covered by black velvet curtains. Light trickles in above and below, revealing only the slightest details of his workspace.

  He turns to his laptop and jostles it awake. He sees a new email from a familiar address. He opens it.

  Confess. I have the letter.

  The man, the father, heads toward his son. He watches his own shadow, cast by the computer screen, become smaller and clearer as he walks down the hall.

  “Mon cœur, Daddy has to go to work, but can you do something for me while I’m gone?” he asks, announcing himself. He enters the room and pulls a small suitcase from underneath the bed.

  “Yes, Daddy?” the child says, pulling back the covers, revealing pajamas with a repeating pattern of “I Heart NY.”

  “Can you pack yourself some of your favorite clothes and your toothbrush and toothpaste, and a couple of your favorite dump trucks?” He stretches out the word favorite as only a father ca
n.

  “Sure! We going on a trip?”

  “It’s a surprise. I will tell you all about it when I get home. Make sure you pack everything neat like Daddy.”

  “Okay!”

  “Thank you, sweet boy,” Ghost says. “When I leave, make sure you lock the doors like I taught you. If someone knocks, don’t answer, you hear? Make sure you don’t let nobody know you’re here.”

  He kisses his son on the forehead and exits the apartment, leaving his filthy computer to continue casting its eerie glow.

  C h a p t e r 4 6

  “My car is filthy, baby, I’m gonna head out to the car wash, you need anything?” Haylee asks her husband, who is sitting on their avocado-green mid-century sofa, reading the paper and drinking coffee. “The birds shit all over the hood again.”

  “Birds? It’s the dead of winter.” Shawn says.

  “I don’t know what to tell you. Either it was birds or those neighborhood kids.” She laughs at her own ridiculousness. “Last chance, do you need anything?

  “Nah, I’m good,” Shawn says, making a slurping noise. “So good.”

  “Have fun basking in your victory,” she says.

  “Wait, don’t leave just yet, come over here a second.”

  Shawn pats the couch. Haylee accepts the invitation.

  “My firm just got word that the jury selection was key in acquitting Micah, and I wanted to thank you for that.”

  “I don’t understand,” she says leaning into his chest. Shawn lifts his arm and places it around her shoulder.

  “Well, I don’t know if you remember this, but we were getting ready together one morning a few weeks ago, and you mentioned something about several clients of yours experiencing spiritual abuse. You had a theory that people who are ultra-religious usually move to the city to escape the abuse. You remember that?”

  “You listen to me!” Haylee says, pounding her husband’s knee.

  “Of course I do, honey. Turns out you were right. All I had to do was find people who were fairly new to the city, with extreme religious views, which is mostly what the prosecution was looking for too. For entirely different reasons of course. I think they thought they’d secured a pool of homophobes, and that was that.”

  “I don’t completely understand,” Haylee says, almost following his thought process. “But from what I understand, well, that was a pretty risky move.”

  “Seems like some sort of unconscious empathy,” Shawn says, proud of the phrase he’d just coined. “According to post-trial interviews, some of the jury thought Micah was being ganged up on. With the addition of the fact that nobody else was even fully considered, they all felt they had no choice but to acquit for one reason or another.”

  “Wow, that’s kind of incredible,” she replies, getting up.

  “You’re incredible. You should eat something and take it easy,” Shawn says. “Want me to fix you some French toast?”

  “Baby, I’m pregnant, not dead. And I’m going to get the car washed, not running a half-marathon.”

  Shawn raises his left eyebrow as if to say “good point” and continues drinking his coffee.

  “Hey, I thought Micah was spending the night last night.” Haylee looks around.

  “Oh yeah, you missed him. God, baby, he was so happy to be in a normal space, he conked out as soon as his head hit this couch.”

  “You didn’t give him one of the spare bedrooms? Honey, it’s Micah.”

  “Baby, he was exhausted. He fell asleep right there, I think in mid-sentence.”

  She opens the front door to leave, turns back around and looks at the couch. She sees a folded blanket with two pillows on top on the far side of the sectional.

  “He said he was gonna head back to his place,” Shawn explains, then looks at his watch. “But Lord, he must’ve left early. I got up at six, and he was already gone.”

  Shawn’s phone rings.

  “That’s my cue,” Haylee says. “I’ll see you soon. French toast would be nice when I get back.”

  She blows a kiss to him and shuts the door behind her.

  C h a p t e r 4 7

  Opening the clear floor-to-ceiling doors to his building for the first time in months, Micah can still hear the glass breaking from the night of the murder. Everything in his building’s foyer has been replaced, yet he can still feel the crunching of broken pieces underneath his feet.

  He enters the elevator and presses 7. The floor does not illuminate. He resituates a folded newspaper he is cradling underneath his arm, takes the key from his pocket, and turns it in the lock on the elevator panel, then presses the button again. The number 7 lights up.

  The ride up feels long. He hears the voices from that night in the back of his mind.

  “Baby, please! Don’t. Please, God help me, PLEASE!”

  “Stay with me! Please, God.”

  ((Ding.))

  The elevator opens. He walks inside and turns on the light. The voices continue.

  “So, you must’ve turned on these can lights above us here after you tried to save him?”

  “And that’s your husband right there?”

  The shades are all drawn, courtesy of Jenna, he assumes. Micah flips the paddle switch on the wall next to the elevator, and the can lights in the ceiling illuminate the familiar space. He looks at the corner of the living room and walks toward the spot where his husband breathed his last breath. He sees a photo of Lennox and himself on the console table behind the sofa. They are in front of Machu Picchu, smiling, arms around each other. He turns the photo upside down. He cannot move any further. He collapses into the cushions, noticing the smeared dried bloodstains on the arms of the couch. He throws the folded newspaper onto the pillows beside him. A huge headline “KILLER STILL FREE?” looms above a photo of him exiting the detention center.

  He pulls out his phone and summons the courage to call Jenna. He waits for her to answer.

  “Micah!” Jenna exclaims. “Is that you?”

  “Yes,” he replies. “I just got home. Jenna, I can’t do this.”

  “Oh, sweet Micah, I know how hard this must be. Want me to come over? I’m in Soho right now, my regular Friday night nanny gig for those godawful children, but it’s almost over. I was gonna go over to Josh’s, but I can be there in, like, thirty.”

  “No, no, no, it’s okay,” Micah says.

  “Seriously, it’s no big deal, I want to come over.”

  He fights back tears. “Jenna, I didn’t know Shawn was gonna do that. I tried to stop him.”

  Jenna is silent.

  “He went too far,” Micah says. “Are you okay?”

  “He did go too far. He doesn’t really believe that, does he?”

  “No! He was just too wrapped up in trying to help me.” Micah tries to comfort her. “I hope it doesn’t hurt you in any way. Please know how much I love you and appreciate everything, everything you have done for me.”

  Another call beeps in Micah’s ear. It’s Shawn.

  “Oh, my pleasure,” Jenna says. “We’re gonna get through this. I’ll let you have some time at home, but I’ll check in on you later, okay?”

  “Okay. Thank you!”

  “Bye, sweetheart.”

  Micah presses to answer the other call.

  “Hey, Shawn, sorry I left so early, I just needed some air.”

  “No worries, buddy. How’s it going there?”

  “It’s okay,” Micah checks his soul to make sure his comment is true. “Yes, I think I’m going to be okay.”

  “Well, that’s good.”

  Micah can tell by Shawn’s tone that something’s not right. “It sounds like there’s something else you want to tell me.”

  “Elaine and Wallace Holcomb are suing you in civil court,” Shawn blurts.

  C h a p t e r 4 8

  A deluge of water flops over Haylee’s windshield. The sound startles her.

  She laughs and pulls out her phone. She types in the words “When to expect morning sickness” into the
search bar.

  She is sitting inside her black Mercedes ML 350, which is gliding through the car wash.

  Atlantic Car Wash is an easy-in-easy-out, old school auto detailing establishment at the corner of Vanderbilt and Atlantic in Brooklyn. One of the two turquoise-painted brick buildings houses the service and repair garage, the other the track system that carries vehicles through suds, rinse, and dry.

  While her SUV moves down tracks to the rinse cycle, two employees dressed in heavy black raincoats and thick gloves are waiting just beyond the cement walls. Both are jumping up and down to keep their blood flowing while they wait to hand-dry her SUV in the middle of winter.

  At the top of the dark, cavernous room, a hose breaks free from the ceiling, and the metal nozzle crashes down on Haylee’s windshield, cracking it with a loud thud. She drops her phone and looks up to watch the hose dance around like a snake, spewing its icy venom across the space, dousing one of the two employees waiting outside. Completely soaked, the man takes control of the serpent and wrestles it to the ground, while the other man pushes a button on a side console to stop the water.

  Haylee takes control of her breath and picks up the phone that had fallen just beneath her feet. She watches the drenched man begin to take his vinyl jacket off. As if in slow motion, he takes off his coat and reveals his thin, freckly arms, covered only by a dirty white tank top.

  Haylee’s eyes grow wider as she sees the ghost tattoo on his shoulder. She tries to catch her breath, letting out a quick, heavy snort, releasing a tiny bit of mucous onto her upper lip. She reaches for a Kleenex in her purse, while at the same time moving her phone into camera mode. She wipes her lips with her tissue and positions the camera.

  ((Flash.))

  “Shit,” she says, dropping her phone again.

  Ghost looks through the windshield, directly into her eyes. He puts his coat back on and walks out of view.

  Haylee starts her car and moves it forward off the tracks. Once free, she presses the gas, and the car barrels through pools of water, splashing the second man. The tires screech as she bolts right on Atlantic and hits the interstate to go back home.