RAYMOND: Thank you so much for enlightening us, Dr. Brown. We appreciate your taking time out of your busy schedule. I have no more questions for the witness, Your Honor.
Prosecutor Keller is scribbling so much in his notepad that all of the rest of us, including Dr. Brown, have to wait for him to get up and take his turn. When he does stand and head for the witness box, he’s frowning, like he has no more idea than I do what the expert psychiatrist really said.
KELLER: Hello, Dr. Brown. I have a few questions I hope you’ll help me with. I admit that I’m not familiar with Landau-Kleffner syndrome, but I’ve done a bit of research on Asperger’s and on selective mutism. Perhaps you could help us understand the nature of these tantrums you talk about. Would it be correct to say that many individuals with selective mutism—the one diagnosis you’re certain of—have tantrums?
DR. BROWN: Of course. As I explained, there are cross symptoms with L-K, SM, Asperger’s, and autism—the focus, the mannerisms, and, yes, the occasional tantrum.
KELLER: I see. And is temper generally associated with the tantrums?
DR. BROWN: That’s correct. We believe that in selective mutism especially, the frustration of self-imposed silence fosters a temper, and thus the tantrums.
KELLER: I see. And how many of these selective mutes, in a sudden burst of insanity, have murdered another person?
RAYMOND: I object!
JUDGE: Overruled.
DR. BROWN: Well, no one that I know of.
KELLER: No one has given in to the insanity and committed murder, in spite of himself?
DR. BROWN: You can’t equate selective mutism or Asperger’s or autism with insanity.
KELLER: I can’t? Ah. So let me be sure I’m understanding you correctly, Doctor. You’re saying that just because someone is selectively mute, or has Asperger’s or autism, we should not assume he is insane. Have I got that right?
DR. BROWN: Yes, technically, but—
KELLER: Thank you, Doctor. By the way, Dr. Brown, how long has the defendant been a patient of yours?
DR. BROWN: What? No. He’s not my patient.
KELLER: Oh? I’m sorry. You must have interviewed him, then?
DR. BROWN: That’s right. I was able to meet with Jeremy Long this morning.
KELLER: I see. For how many hours?
DR. BROWN: Well … we had to be in court. I suppose I was with Jeremy under an hour.
KELLER: Under an hour? And you were able to get him to tell you enough about himself to diagnose him? You must be quite an expert psychiatrist.
DR. BROWN: He didn’t actually tell me about himself, per se, of course. By definition, selective mutes don’t answer questions. I was, however, able to observe the boy and—
KELLER: Observe him? Like the jury is doing now? Only … for a much shorter length of time?
DR. BROWN: Well, I wouldn’t say—
KELLER: That’s all right, Doctor. I think I’ve gotten all the information you’re able to give. No more questions for the witness.
9
It’s afternoon before I’m called back up to the witness stand. I guess swearing must have lasted overnight because I don’t have to do it again. My palms are so sweaty they slip when I grab the wooden railing.
I try to get Jeremy to look at me as I take my seat. He’s wearing another suit I’ve never seen, and I figure Raymond must have bought it for him. It’s a nice suit, gray and brand-new. I’m grateful, but Jer looks like he’s playing dress-up in it. His hair is cut short and close, which looks neat and everything, but makes his ears stick out. He won’t look at me. And then I remember I promised him I’d see if I could get him an empty jar, and I didn’t even try.
“Good afternoon, Hope,” Raymond says.
“Afternoon.” My voice sounds thin, like a little girl’s. I clear my throat.
“I won’t take very long today, Hope. Just a few more questions for you. The court has heard expert testimony concerning Jeremy’s mental condition. I just want you to tell the court about your brother in your own words. Is that all right with you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Hope, can you tell us if Jeremy has had any hobbies like other boys his age?”
This is how we practiced getting into the glass-jar stories, so I tell the first one. Then I wait for Raymond to ask me about Jeremy dumping all the pickles on the kitchen floor so he could have the jar, and I tell that one, glad that Rita’s not allowed in the courtroom until after she testifies.
When I’m done, Raymond smiles at me. I think he winks, but it might be a twitch. “Thank you, Hope.” He turns to the judge. “That’s all, Your Honor.”
I’d like to get up and follow Raymond, but the prosecutor is already out of his chair and heading for me.
“Good day,” he says. He unbuttons his jacket and walks so close I think I smell the sweat that’s left dark circles around his armpits. It’s hot in the courtroom, even with the fans going. “My name is Mr. Keller. Can I call you Hope?”
“Okay.”
“Good. Thank you.” I keep thinking how Raymond called him a pit bull. And I guess he was kind of hard on the doctor. Still, I don’t see him as a pit bull. Not yet anyway. On the other hand, people who get bitten by pit bulls are always saying how the dogs were so sweet until that minute before the bite.
“I just have a few questions for you, Hope,” Mr. Keller begins. “Then we’ll let you get out of here and go home.”
I wish he could say that to my brother.
Raymond warned me to keep my answers short and not volunteer information not asked. So I wait to be asked. Only Keller is flipping through his notes. My knee starts bobbing all by itself, and my heart is pounding so loud I wonder if the prosecutor can hear it. I look past him to the crowd of reporters in the back row, to the jurors on my left, to Jeremy on my right. T.J., wearing a red T-shirt with a gold dragon on it, is sitting as close to the front as he could get. Then my gaze passes over the gallery in the little balcony, and I see him. Chase. He’s sitting in the front row, leaning forward, his hands on the rail.
And instantly, I feel better.
I don’t know why Chase shows up every day, but T.J. says he’s been here for the whole trial. A lot of Grain citizens have. Maybe they come for the same reason rubberneckers gawk at highway accidents.
“Hope,” Mr. Keller says, turning his side to me so he can smile at the jury, “what was your brother’s relationship with Mr. Johnson like?”
Raymond jumps up. “Objection! The witness isn’t qualified to answer. She isn’t an expert in relationships.”
Raymond’s right about that.
But the judge disagrees. “Overruled. Proceed, Mr. Keller.”
He turns to me this time. “Why don’t you just tell us from your own observations how your brother got along with the deceased?”
“They got along fine.”
“Could you explain your answer for the court, please?”
I’m trying to keep my answers short, like Raymond said, but I can’t see how it would hurt for the jury to know how much Jeremy liked Coach. “Coach Johnson gave Jeremy a real good job at the stable. Jer mucked the stalls and all, but he got to ride and brush the horses too. He loved his job. And the pay was great.”
“Did they see one another outside the stable?”
“On the ball field,” I answer quickly, eager to make the jury understand how much Coach meant to Jeremy. “Coach let Jeremy be his assistant for the summer games. Jeremy was the first one to show up on the ball diamond and the last to leave. He was in charge of the bats and balls, the game equipment.”
Keller looks like he wants to ask another question, but I’m not done yet. “Plus,” I add quickly, “Coach gave Jeremy a Panther uniform. Jeremy loved that uniform. He would have worn it every day if I’d let him. And—” But I stop myself just in time because I was going to say how Jeremy carried his bat with him to the barn every single morning.
Mr. Keller nods, like he’s taking it all in. “Did C
oach Johnson ever give Jeremy a bat?”
I bite my lip so hard it hurts. I try to glance at Raymond because we didn’t practice for this question, but the prosecutor’s standing in my way.
“Do you need me to repeat the question?” Keller asks.
“No. I mean, yes. Coach gave Jeremy his bat.”
“Thank you. Now, Hope, I’d like to go back to the day of the murder.”
I wouldn’t. It’s the last day I’d like to go back to.
“I’m hoping you can help us fill in a few time gaps,” Prosecutor Keller says. “Where were you on the morning of June eleventh?”
“Asleep. In my bed.”
He nods, like he knew this already. “Did you see your brother that morning? Before the police knocked on your door, that is?”
“No.” I add quickly, “But I saw Jeremy when I went to bed the night before. He was in his bed sound asleep.”
“Okay. Let’s talk about the next day. What woke you that morning?”
“Pounding on the door. The front door. It woke Rita and me both up.”
“But not Jeremy?”
I shrug, then remember I’m supposed to use words. “I wouldn’t know about that.”
“Of course,” he says, like he agrees with me. “So what did you do when you heard this pounding on the door?”
“I answered it.”
“Go on, please, Hope.”
The facts. Just the facts. Raymond’s coaching throbs in my head, along with a headache that better not turn into a migraine. “Sheriff Wells was standing there, with a couple of others behind him. He asked me where Jeremy was, and I told him Jeremy was asleep.”
Keller nods for me to continue, waving one arm while he takes a couple of steps toward the jury.
“Sheriff Wells started to come in, but that’s when Rita took over.”
“That would be your mother and the defendant’s mother, yes?”
“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 Je
remy. 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.
10
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!”
The Silence of Murder Page 5
