The Silence of Murder

by Dandi Daley Mackall

  Jeremy stops fidgeting with the bottle and glares at me. The angelic look disappears from his face.

  “But not you,” I say quickly, finishing my thought. “I can picture almost anybody I know losing his temper and in a single instant doing something he’d regret. But I can’t picture you doing it.” I lean in and lower my voice. “And I know you’re not crazy. I’d sooner believe the whole world is crazy than believe you were crazy for one minute.”

  “We have to go.” The guard steps away from me and takes one of Jeremy’s arms, with a second guard holding Jer’s other arm. He goes with them without a struggle, his back straight, his chin held high, like he’s been invited to visit royalty.

  29

  After court, Chase drops me off in front of my house. As soon as he drives away, I feel someone watching me. My skin tingles, and for a second I can’t move from the sidewalk. I glance around for the pickup truck I know I’ll see, but it’s starting to get dark, and I can’t make out forms across the street.

  Then I see him. T.J. He’s standing in the neighbor’s yard, leaning against a tree, staring at me.

  “T.J., you scared me half to death!” I start toward him, but I’m struck with a mixture of sadness, loss, and something else … fear. I stop a few feet away from him. “I’ve missed you.”

  He doesn’t say anything. He just keeps staring, his mouth hard, his eyes invisible behind those glasses.

  “I look for you every day in court,” I say, my voice sounding thin and false, even though I’m telling the truth. “I can’t believe you stopped coming.”

  “I’ve been there.” He doesn’t budge. I don’t think his lips moved. If I didn’t know better, I’d think somebody else had spoken, not T.J.

  “I didn’t see you.”

  “I saw you. You and Chase.”

  “But how—?”

  “From the gallery.” His voice isn’t angry or hurt, but something worse. It’s cold as death.

  I don’t know what to say to him. “Well, I wish you’d come sit with us.”

  I think he laughs, but his face doesn’t change expression. The word us hangs in the air. “We’ve been friends a long time, T.J.”

  He takes a step toward me. It’s all I can do not to run away. “Have we?”

  I watch him walk off. And this time, nothing in me wants to run after him.

  Finally, it’s the day we’ve been waiting for—Caroline Johnson is called to the witness stand. Reporters are on the edge of their chairs. Nobody on the jury looks the least bit sleepy.

  The double doors open, and as if she’s been waiting her whole life for this grand entrance, Caroline Johnson is wheeled into the courtroom. It’s a thousand degrees in this room, but she’s wearing a tailored business suit, solid navy or maybe black, and she has a plaid blanket folded over her lap, topped off by a box of tissues.

  Seeing her makes me think of T.J. He was trying so hard to help me find something against this woman. The morning after we searched the crime scene, T.J. texted me that he wished he could get a look at Mrs. Johnson’s shoes. He’d seen some TV show where they proved a guy was lying about being stuck in a wheelchair because the bottoms of his shoes were all scuffed up. I try to get a glimpse of Mrs. Johnson’s shoes as she’s wheeled in, but her feet rest on little footrests.

  I want to wipe out my last conversations with T.J. I want to forget the way I felt the last time I saw him. I just want to hold on to how much he tried to help me, how much he’s always tried to help me.

  Instead of making Caroline Johnson walk to the witness chair, which I totally believe she could do, they have a ramp in place so she can be wheeled right up and into the box. Raymond smiles at her, and she sort of smiles back, but it looks more like a wince. I can’t help analyzing every movement, wondering if she’s for real. On the one hand, she’s taken the time to paint her fingernails and put on lipstick. On the other hand, if she is faking, then she should get an Academy Award because even I’m starting to feel a little sorry for her.

  I try to bring back the image of Caroline Johnson screaming at her husband in the ball field parking lot. How does that Caroline fit with the withered woman in front of me? I want the jury to see that Caroline Johnson, not this one.

  RAYMOND: First of all, Mrs. Johnson, I’d like to express how sorry I am for your loss.

  MRS. J.: Thank you. (She pops a tissue out of the box and dabs one eye.)

  RAYMOND: And I’d like to say how grateful we are that you’ve made this effort to appear before the court. If there’s anything you need, please let us know.

  MRS. J.: Thank you. I’m all right. (She takes a whiff of her asthma inhaler before going on.) I want to do all I can to make sure justice is served. That’s what John would have wanted.

  I whisper to Chase, “Right. And it only took a court order to get her here.”

  RAYMOND: Mrs. Johnson, did you and your husband ever argue?

  MRS. J.: What couple do you know who don’t argue once in a while? We were married for fifteen years.

  RAYMOND: I suppose you’re right about that. And they say that the number one reason for arguments in marriage is money. Did you and your husband argue about money?

  MRS. J.: After I got sick, I left the finances up to John.

  RAYMOND: At this time, I’d like to offer as exhibit G an acknowledged copy of a letter from First National Bank, denying Mr. and Mrs. Johnson’s loan application three months prior to the murder. (Turning to the witness) Mrs. Johnson, is this your signature on the application?

  MRS. J.: Yes.

  RAYMOND: Would it be fair to say that your illness and the decline of your stable business, which Mr. Johnson tried to maintain, put a strain on your finances?

  MRS. J.: I suppose.

  RAYMOND: And isn’t it true that you—or your husband—made several applications for loans, and that you were turned down by at least three banks?

  KELLER: Your Honor, I object to this whole line of questioning.

  JUDGE: Overruled. The witness is directed to answer the question.

  MRS. J.: We tried to get a loan, yes.

  RAYMOND: Thank you. Now, Mrs. Johnson, can you explain why, especially in light of your financial constraints, your husband would pay out one thousand dollars a month to Rita Long?

  MRS. J.: That’s absurd!

  KELLER: Your Honor! Objection! Facts not in evidence and prejudicial. I ask that the question be stricken from the record.

  JUDGE: Sustained. The jury is instructed to disregard counsel’s question.

  RAYMOND: Mrs. Johnson, are you familiar with Rita Long, the defendant’s mother?

  MRS. J.: I know who she is. She and John went to high school together for a couple of years. Neither of us had anything to do with her after she moved back to town.

  RAYMOND: So you’re saying that you knew nothing of a relationship between them?

  KELLER: Your Honor! I object!

  JUDGE: Sustained. Move along, Mr. Munroe.

  RAYMOND: Mrs. Johnson, did your husband have a life insurance policy on you?

  MRS. J.: He had a small policy with his teachers insurance plan, I believe, although I can’t see what—

  RAYMOND: Thank you. And do you have a life insurance policy on your husband?

  MRS. J.: I … I suppose. John took care of those things.

  RAYMOND: Perhaps this will refresh your memory. (He hands her a document, explains that it’s exhibit K, and opens to the last page.) That is your signature, is it not?

  MRS. J.: Yes.

  RAYMOND: Would you please read the death benefit on John Johnson’s life insurance policy, the amount that goes to you, his spouse, in the event of his death?

  MRS. J.: Five … five hundred thousand dollars.

  It’s all I can do to keep from shouting, “Go, Raymond!” I admit I wasn’t crazy about Raymond bringing up Rita like that, but it’s clear that I have seriously underestimated Raymond Munroe, Attorney for the Defense. He leads Caroline Johnson through a series of questions and a
nswers about her husband and Jeremy. Even she has to admit how much they liked each other. I whisper to Chase, “I’m so glad Raymond got her on the stand. Everybody has to see that she did it, or at least that she could have done it.”

  Chase isn’t bubbling over like I am. “Don’t be too sure. Keller will get another crack at her when Raymond’s done.”

  This is something I hadn’t thought about, and it doesn’t seem fair. Keller already had his turn when she was his witness, even though she only testified on paper. Raymond finishes his questions, and I still think he nailed it. But Chase is right. Keller stands up the second Raymond announces that he’s out of questions.

  KELLER: Mrs. Johnson, on behalf of the court, I’d like to apologize for putting you through this today. You’ve been most gracious to come to court and help us finish up the trial. May I get you anything? I’m sure the judge would consider a short recess.

  MRS. J.: No. Thank you. I’m here to help.

  KELLER: I’d like to revisit your husband’s relationship with the defendant. Can you describe it for us?

  MRS. J.: Of course. John felt sorry for the boy. Well, I suppose one has to, doesn’t one?

  KELLER: So he spent time with the defendant and gave him a job?

  MRS. J.: John was always generous to a fault. He taught the boy how to care for horses and taught him to ride, not that John had that kind of time. After the cancer made me an invalid, John had to do his own job and mine. He took over the stable. He let Jeremy muck the stalls, and he undoubtedly paid the boy much more than the task merited.

  KELLER: And what about Jeremy and the Panthers, your husband’s baseball team?

  MRS. J.: Again, John’s heart was too big for his own good. Jeremy couldn’t play on the team, of course, so John let him carry the clipboard and equipment bag. John even gave him a uniform.

  KELLER: Forgive me for making you relive this one more time, but I need to talk about Jeremy’s bat. Do you know where the defendant got his bat?

  MRS. J.: From my husband. John bought it for the boy. And it wasn’t cheap. All the other boys wanted aluminum bats. But John said Jeremy wanted a real bat, a wooden one. I never liked seeing Jeremy with that bat of his. I knew it was trouble from the minute I—

  RAYMOND: Objection!

  JUDGE: Sustained. Just answer the questions, Mrs. Johnson. Proceed.

  KELLER: Did you ever see the defendant with his bat?

  MRS. J.: All the time! He carried that bat with him everywhere. He scared a couple of our broodmares with it. John wheeled me to the barn from time to time so I could be around the horses. That was before this last bout with the cancer.

  KELLER: And you saw Jeremy in the barn? With a bat?

  MRS. J.: Yes. I’m the one who insisted he leave the bat at the entrance the minute he stepped inside the barn.

  She breaks up, and Keller hands her one of her tissues. I think her crocodile tears are a crock. I stare at the jury and hope they got the part about her knowing exactly where the bat was kept.

  KELLER: After you stopped going to the barn, did you see the defendant again?

  MRS. J.: John brought him by the house, but …

  KELLER: Please go on, Mrs. Johnson.

  MRS. J.: But that boy always made me nervous. Anxious.

  KELLER: Anxious? How so?

  MRS. J.: He brought that bat into our house, for one thing.

  KELLER: Tell the court about the last time you allowed the defendant into your home.

  MRS. J.: Jeremy had supposedly gotten a splinter in his finger from one of the spades or pitchforks in the barn. John brought him to the house so he could get a pair of tweezers. He needed more light to see the splinter, so they used the bathroom. On the way out, they stopped by the bedroom so John could check on me and explain. I tried to put the boy at ease and asked him questions about the horses, yes-or-no questions. But he got more and more agitated. He started swinging that bat. He swung it around and around, harder and faster, until I was frightened. He ended up breaking my bureau mirror, my grandmother’s mirror. John said it was an accident, but I don’t know.

  KELLER: What do you mean?

  MRS. J.: I thought then—in fact, I was sure—that Jeremy had swung his bat into my mirror on purpose. He knew what he was doing, all right.

  After Keller sits down, Raymond stands up and tries to get in some last words about how much Jeremy and Coach liked each other. But it doesn’t help. He can’t erase Caroline Johnson’s words. They’re stuck in our heads, and nothing is going to drive them out: He knew what he was doing, all right.

  I’m so angry when court adjourns that my stomach aches and my whole head feels like it’s on fire. “That woman is evil!” I tell Chase as we watch his dad and a deputy wheel her out of the courtroom. “She made my brother sound like a bat-waving, mirror-breaking, weapon-swinging maniac.”

  “I know.”

  “And I guarantee she knew about those checks to Rita and maybe what Coach was paying Rita for.”

  “You don’t know what those checks were for, Hope.”

  “She knew. I know she did. Give me ten minutes alone in that house, and I’ll bet I could find more canceled checks and who knows what all.” We’re at Chase’s car in the parking lot, and I wait for him to unlock the doors. Across the street, in front of the courthouse, an ambulance drives up. Sheriff Wells pushes Mrs. Johnson’s wheelchair into the back of the ambulance. “Chase, what’s that about?”

  “Didn’t you hear them when they were wheeling her out? Dad and Keller are taking her to the doctor to have her checked out after the ‘ordeal.’ It’s all for show, if you ask me.”

  “Wait a minute.” I hadn’t heard one word of that conversation. I’d been too wound up to hear anything. “Are you telling me she’s going to the doctor, and your dad and the prosecutor are taking her?”

  “That’s what they said.” He climbs behind the wheel and unlocks my door. “Why?”

  I slide into the seat next to him. “Don’t you see what that means? Chase, not only will she be out of the house now, but your dad will be out of the way too!”

  Chase rests his forehead on the steering wheel. “Hope, no.

  Please?”

  I buckle up. “We have to do it, Chase. It’s our last chance to prove that Caroline Johnson is a dirty rotten liar.”

  30

  Twenty minutes later Chase pulls up at Caroline Johnson’s house. We don’t have time to park far away like T.J. and I did when we searched the barn and Coach’s office, so Chase cruises behind the house and parks around back.

  As we make our way to the front porch, I’m still fuming. “Jeremy never liked that woman. And he’s an excellent judge of character.”

  “So you’ve said. On numerous occasions.” Chase tries the front doorknob. “Locked. I think we should leave, Hope.”

  “So you’ve said on numerous occasions.”

  He doesn’t smile.

  “Please, Chase? Maybe there’s a key hidden around here.” I check under a pot sitting on the front porch, under the planters along the sidewalks, and all around the porch swing. Chase doesn’t help. He’s definitely getting restless. I don’t know how much longer I can keep him here.

  “Let’s try the other door,” I suggest. I jog to the back of the house. The screen door is locked too. Chase comes up behind me. I rattle the screen. “Can’t we yank it open? Or cut the screen?”

  “Not unless you want to end up in jail.” He steps in front of me and takes his car keys out of his pocket. “Here. It’s just a fall latch.”

  I watch while he jimmies the latch and pulls open the door in one smooth move. “Where did you learn to do that?”

  His mouth twists like somebody snapped a rubber band over his lips. Then he says, “I told you I ran with the wrong crowd in Boston. Enough said?” He says this like he’s mad at me.

  “Enough said.” I shove in front of him and try the doorknob. It turns. I push the door until I can squeeze through. A strong odor hangs in the air—a mi
x of bacon grease, burned cookies, and sickness. Or maybe death. I don’t move from the doorway.

  “Are you sure you want to go through with this?” Chase asks, making it clear he doesn’t.

  I turn and face him. It’s dark inside the house. Outside, the sun has stopped shining for the day. “I have to, for Jeremy. But you don’t. You could wait in the car.”

  He sighs. “Do you even know what you’re looking for?”

  “One of those checks to Rita maybe? A divorce paper? Or a journal, where Coach’s wife tells how she did it? Or a copy of a contract she gave to a contract killer?” I smile up at him, willing him to smile back.

  He doesn’t. But with one finger, he pushes back a strand of my hair that’s sprung loose. “Well, we better hurry. They could bring her home any minute.”

  I squeeze his arm and hope that he can read how grateful I am that he’s staying with me.

  I’m afraid to turn on lights. Chase opens the back door wider so the remaining light of dusk sneaks in with us. I’ve never been inside this house before. The floor creaks with every step. The air is too moist, like in our house.

  After a second, my eyes adjust to the shades of gray, and details sharpen, coming into focus as if I’m turning the lens of an expensive camera. I try to take it in: white lace on end tables that flank a light green sofa, doilies under lamps and vases, lacy curtains. The whole house is frilly. You’d think two old women lived here. On the walls and on the hall table are pictures of Caroline with her horses. Over the couch hangs a giant painting of a little girl holding the reins of a pony in one hand and a blue ribbon in the other. The kid has to be Caroline.

  I bump into a table and hear something wobble. There are breakables all over this place. No wonder they never had kids. Children wouldn’t last two minutes in this house. “Chase?” I whisper. My heart thumps because I can’t see him.

  “In the kitchen,” he calls out in a normal voice. Why not? If anybody’s here, they’ve already heard us.