The Silence of Murder

by Dandi Daley Mackall

  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.

  “I’m not hungry, Mrs. Bowers,” I tell her. “But thanks.”

  “I should be going,” Chase says. His eyes dart around the living room. He looks like he’s scared the house is about to blow up. He probably never hangs out with people like me and T.J.

  “Don’t go, man.” T.J. nods to the basket he’s holding. “Let me run this down to the basement. I’ll meet you in
the kitchen. Hope, get us something to drink, whatever’s in the fridge.” He slants his eyes at me, like he and I have some kind of secret that explains why he’s making sure Chase sticks around.

  I don’t get it. But a lot of times I don’t get T.J. “Sure,” I say to his back as he heads toward the basement. Then I start for the kitchen.

  Chase stays where he is a second, then follows me.

  I love the Bowers’s kitchen. It’s the biggest room in the house. T.J.’s dad built all the cupboards, plus a cooking island in the center. Chase slides into the small corner booth, also built by Mr. Bowers. They have a dining room, but I’ve never seen them use it.

  I pour three glasses of OJ and join Chase in the booth, taking the other end of the L. “You really don’t have to stick around,” I tell him.

  Chase is fiddling with the salt and pepper shakers. He shrugs without looking up.

  After a minute, I can’t stand the silence. “I’ll go see if T.J. needs any help.” I make my way to the basement and find T.J. pulling clothes out of the dryer. “T.J., what’s going on?”

  He glances back at me. “Sorry this is taking so long. I’ll be up in a minute.”

  “No. I mean, why are you trying to keep Chase around? It’s weird.”

  T.J. sets down the clothes basket and walks over to me. “Hope, he can help us.”

  “Help us what?”

  “Look,” he says, like he’s explaining a tough algebra problem to me. “Chase is an insider. He’s going to know more than we do about your brother’s trial.”

  “So?”

  “So we can use him.” T.J. grins and touches his glasses. “Why else would I want to hang out with Chase Wells?”

  I can think of a couple of reasons, like becoming popular by association, like being part of Chase’s crowd. But I keep my thoughts to myself.

  T.J. puts his hands on my shoulders. “Hope, trust me. Okay?”

  I take a breath of basement air filled with mildew and dust. If I can’t trust T.J., who can I trust? “Okay.”

  He nods toward the stairs. “Go back up. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Chase is sitting exactly where I left him. I scoot into the booth. “T.J. will be right up.”

  Neither of us says anything else until T.J. gets back. “You guys sure you’re not hungry?” He opens the fridge and takes out bologna, cheese, mustard, and bread. Who keeps bread in the fridge? “Bologna sandwich? I’m having one. Well, actually two.”

  “No thanks.” Chase and I say this at the same time, exchange glances, then stare at the flowered tablecloth.

  A sandwich in each hand, T.J. scoots in on my side, forcing me closer to Chase. The smell of bologna and mustard makes me think of Jeremy. “Jer likes bologna sandwiches,” I say, more to myself than to them. “Not as much as peanut butter.” I turn to Chase. “What do you think they’re feeding him in jail?”

  “I don’t really know,” Chase says. “I can find out … if you want.”

  Do I? Do I want to know? Chase could find out. Maybe this is what T.J. meant about Chase being able to help us. “All I know is that Jeremy has got to be going crazy locked up in a cell.” I glance up because I didn’t mean to say “crazy.”

  “They have to take good care of him, Hope,” T.J. says. But he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know Jeremy either, not really. He’s nice to Jer, but he never seems at ease around him. Most people are like that.

  “Was Jeremy always like … like he is now?” Chase asks.

  I frown at him and wonder if he really wants to know or if he’s trying to change the subject. Or if he’s working for his dad, the sheriff.

  “Never mind,” he says quickly. “None of my business. I just … I don’t know. Seeing him in court every day, I wondered.”

  “So why are you in court every day?” The question’s out before I can stop myself.

  “You sound like my dad,” Chase says. “He’d just as soon I never set foot in the courthouse.”

  “Yeah?” T.J. sounds surprised. “I thought he’d want you to be there. You know? So you two could talk over the case and how the trial’s going and everything?”

  “Yeah, right,” Chase mutters. “I don’t know. I’ve never been to a trial before. There wasn’t anything else to do, so I went. I guess once I started going, I got hooked.” The whole time, he’s been staring at his fingernails. Now he looks up at me. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get personal, about Jeremy. You don’t have to talk about him if you don’t want to.”

  But the thing is, I do want to talk about Jer. Pretty much every thought I have goes back to my brother, so talking about anything else feels like a lie. “Jeremy has always been special. I know people say special so they don’t have to say different. But for me, it means something wonderful, like full of wonder. That’s what Jer’s always been. My brother could sit for hours and listen to birds sing, but he couldn’t sit for two minutes in most of his classes.”

  Chase smiles. “He likes birds?”

  “He loves their songs. But I think what Jeremy loves most is when birds and man-made things get along.”

  Chase narrows his eyes. “You lost me.”

  “Like birds on telephone wires, the way crows and jays seem so comfortable on wire made by people. Or gulls hanging out at shopping malls in Cleveland because of those white stone roofs that look like a beach, but that it works out because people leave food for the birds.”

  “Only birds?” Chase asks.

  “He loves our cat,” T.J. says. Then, as if he’s just realized his cat’s not around, he says, “Speaking of which, I better see where Whiskers got off to.” He slides out of the booth and heads for the door. “Be right back.”

  There’s a minute of awkward silence with T.J. gone. I hear him in the backyard calling his cat. Finally, Chase breaks the silence. “I like dogs. Mom’s husband number two had a cat when he moved in, and he got a dog for Trey and me the only Christmas we had with them. Trey was my stepbrother … for maybe a year. How about you? Any pets?”

  I shake my head. “Jeremy and I begged Rita for a pet, but we’ve never had one, except a puppy I can barely remember. Rita said we called it Puppy. Apparently, we were exceptionally original and bright toddlers.” He makes a low laughing sound that helps me breathe easier. “Puppy ran away, or got run over, or maybe found a family who’d give him a better name. When we moved here, there was a cat in the house we’re renting, but Rita called animal control on it.”

  T.J. stumbles into the kitchen with his cat draped across both arms. Whiskers weighs more than a poodle. “She was eating the neighbor’s dog food again.” He sets the cat down and slides back into the booth.

  Chase’s cell rings. He checks the number. “It’s my dad.” He glances at T.J. and me. “Do you guys mind not talking for a minute?” He puts the phone to his ear. “Hey, Dad. What’s up?”

  It’s impossible not to eavesdrop, although we can only hear Chase’s end of the conversation:

  “Just hanging out with friends.”

  …

  “Yeah, I did.” He rolls his eyes. “Easy, Dad. Dial it down, okay? The way those reporters went after her, you should have given her a bodyguard. Somebody had to do something. I just—”

  …

  “Will you listen?” Chase’s eyes are dark slits. “I said I—”

  …

  “I can’t come home now.”

  …

  “Because I’m in the middle of something.” He holds the phone away from his ear.

  I can hear his dad yelling, but I can’t make out the words. I don’t think I want to.

  Chase puts the phone back to his ear. When he gets a word in, he doesn’t raise his voice, but I get the feeling it’s taking everything he has not to. “Sorry. You’re right, Dad. I should have told you.” He listens for half a minute, the only sound his heavy breathing as his chest rises and falls. “All right,” he says. He flips his cell shut and squeezes it so hard his knuckles turn white. Then, without taking his eyes off the pho
ne, he whips it across the kitchen floor.

  11

  Whiskers darts out of the kitchen. I can’t blame her. T.J. and I exchange wide-eyed gazes. Neither of us says a word. Then T.J. gets up and retrieves the phone from across the room. “Still in one piece,” he offers.

  Chase rubs the back of his neck and looks kind of sheepish. “Guess that’s one good thing, huh? Sorry about that. So now you’ve seen the famous Wells temper for yourselves. I’m really sorry … and embarrassed. It’s just … Sheriff Matthew Wells isn’t the easiest person in the world to live with, even for the summer.”

  “Wish you’d stayed in Boston?” T.J. asks, sitting down again.

  “Not really. There are a lot of things I like about Grain.”

  “For instance?” I ask, glad the anger has gone back inside, where we can’t see it.

  “I love hitching posts, for one thing. And the Amish buggies. Nobody back at Andover believed me when I told them about the hitching posts everywhere—at the post office, the dollar store, even the car wash.”

  “Jeremy rolls down the car window whenever we pass a buggy, just so he can hear the clip-clop. I love it too. I really didn’t want to move to Ohio. But when I saw those buggies tied out behind the thrift store the first day we got here, I changed my mind.”

  “Let’s see. What else? I like that Dalmatian statue in front of the firehouse,” Chase says. “No idea why.”

  I can’t believe he said that. “Jer and I used to walk out of our way to church so he could pet that concrete Dalmatian.”

  Chase grins. “My dad is always on me about being too much of a city boy to be a real Panther. Guess this proves I’m not so different from you Grain guys after all.”

  “Yeah, right,” T.J. mutters. He laughs, but it doesn’t sound real.

  “Come on,” Chase says. “I’m into birds, cats, dogs, hitching posts, and buggies. And fire station Dalmatians. What more does a guy need to be a real Panther?” He looks at me to back him up. “Right, Hope?”

  “Maybe,” I admit.

  Chase turns to T.J. “See? Even Hope agrees I’m a regular Panther.”

  T.J. still won’t go for it. “Yeah? Well, she must not have seen you at batting practice. None of the regular Panthers work that hard at it.”