Silent Witness

by Richard North Patterson

  “No.”

  “Nor an expert on teen suicide.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Isn’t it true, Mr. Nixon, that—when I first asked you about this—you said that Marcie told you she wouldn’t expose the father unless, quote, he wanted to come forward, unquote?”

  Ernie folded his hands again. “I think that’s right.”

  “So from what she said to you, Marcie considered it a possibility that he would come forward.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “And marry her?”

  “I don’t know that.…”

  “You don’t know one way or the other, do you?”

  “No.”

  “You and I have come a fair distance in a short time, haven’t we, Mr. Nixon? Now we have a scared, confused, tearful, pregnant sixteen-year-old girl who was fearful of her father, who had no idea of how to cope beyond going to the baby’s father, quite possibly hoping he could somehow make things right, and who—if he didn’t or couldn’t—might have reacted in any number of ways you couldn’t anticipate or predict. Including suicide.”

  Tony could feel Stella rising before he even finished. “Was that a question, Your Honor, or a speech? I have no idea. What I do know is that it’s compound, argumentative, speculative, lacking in foundation, and not susceptible to an answer.…”

  “And,” Tony said with irony, “a lot closer to the truth of Marcie’s life than the fictitious person you used Mr. Nixon to invent. But I’ll withdraw the question and ask the witness another.”

  Frustrated, Stella stared at him. Tony turned and asked Ernie Nixon softly, “You weren’t much help to Marcie, were you?”

  Ernie spread his hands. “I couldn’t be.”

  “And you don’t know who could help her, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Did she ask if you’d marry her, Mr. Nixon?”

  Ernie looked startled for an instant, then aggrieved. “It wasn’t that kind of relationship, Mr. Lord.”

  “What kind was it, exactly?”

  “I already said. I encouraged her, so she was fond of me—”

  “I meant on your part?”

  Ernie sat back, watching Tony with narrowed eyes. With the force of will, Tony tried to shut off any thought but the need to damage the man in front of him, a man whose dignity, or future, Tony as a defense lawyer had no right to consider.

  “I cared about her,” Ernie said simply.

  Shoving his hands in his pockets, Tony sensed the jury’s tension as they watched him. Then he forgot them: it was as if he and Ernie Nixon faced each other in a tunnel.

  “Since you returned to Lake City,” Tony asked, “have any other teenage girls talked to you about the intimate details of their sex lives?”

  Ernie’s eyes were as flat and lifeless as his voice. “No.”

  “Or been with you in your home, alone?”

  “No.”

  “When did you and your wife separate, Mr. Nixon?”

  Ernie folded his arms. “Less than a year ago.”

  “And after that, Marcie Calder started coming to your house, correct?”

  “Sometimes, yes.”

  “How many times?”

  “I didn’t count, Mr. Lord.”

  “More than ten?”

  With a kind of fascination, Tony saw Ernie Nixon wonder how closely Sarah Croff had watched him. “It could have been, yes.”

  “Could it, perhaps, have been more than twenty?”

  Ernie’s gaze broke. To cover this, he adjusted his tie. “Like I say, I didn’t keep count.”

  “So you can’t rule out the possibility that in the last six months of her life, Marcie Calder came to see you at your home, alone, more than twenty times?”

  “No.” Looking up, Ernie’s eyes were cold. “I can’t rule it out or in.”

  “How many hours might that have been, Mr. Nixon, alone with this sixteen-year-old girl?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Tony put one finger to his lips, as though bemused. “What did you two talk about?”

  Ernie arranged his features into an expression of weary disdain. “It’s just as I said. Like a lot of kids, Marcie needed to talk about all sorts of things—her grades, her track, her friends, her parents—”

  “That reminds me,” Tony broke in, “did her parents know she came to your home?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “But you didn’t tell them?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t you think they might be concerned?”

  Ernie threw up his hands. “Look,” he said, “I don’t know if they knew or not. It wasn’t anything I thought about.”

  Tony assumed a puzzled air. “What did you talk to Marcie about?”

  “I don’t remember. Mostly, I listened.…”

  “About your marriage?”

  Ernie’s jaw set. “I really don’t remember.”

  “You’d gone through a marital breakup, Marcie was constantly at your house, and you don’t remember if you talked about it?”

  “No.”

  Tony gave him a fleeting smile of disbelief. “While we’re on the subject of memory, Mr. Nixon, isn’t it possible that your memory on the subject of whether Marcie came to your house at night is somewhat faulty?”

  Ernie stared up at him, silent. It was odd, Tony thought, how many people can persuade themselves that they are invisible and, as witnesses, forget that defense lawyers hire detectives. “What do you mean?” Ernie parried.

  “What immediately pops to mind is those several Saturday nights when Marcie rented a video and brought it over to your house.” Tony paused a moment. “Which one was your favorite—Sabrina, or Love Story?”

  “Objection,” Stella said. “That’s not a question but an insinuation. If Mr. Lord has a question to ask, he should ask it.”

  For the first time, she was clearly rattled. Before Karoly could answer, Tony said, “I’ll ask several,” and turned to Ernie Nixon. “Did Marcie come to your house, alone, on at least four Saturday nights?”

  Briefly, Ernie’s throat worked, and then he assumed a look of attempted recall that Tony knew was feigned. “I seem to remember a few times like that, where she’d just show up.” Pausing, Ernie made his voice dismissive. “It comes back to me that Janice D’Abruzzi had a new boyfriend she was seeing, and sometimes Marcie wanted company. She knew I was alone, with nothing much to do, so she’d bring a movie. Yeah, I remember that now.”

  “Where did you watch the movie?”

  Ernie’s face filled with anger. “In my basement. That’s where the VCR is.” His voice was hard. “Back when my family was together, and Marcie would baby-sit the kids, they’d sit downstairs and watch films together. It was something she liked.”

  “And something you liked.”

  Ernie gave a grudging nod. “Yes.”

  “And when the two of you watched movies, where did she sit?”

  Ernie glanced toward Stella. But no help would be forthcoming, Tony knew; any objection would draw a lethal speech from Tony before Karoly overruled it. Tony noted with interest that Karoly himself had begun watching Ernie with an air of puzzlement and disapproval, which several jurors seemed to share.

  “Sometimes she sat on the floor,” Ernie said, “and sometimes on the couch.”

  “And you sat next to her.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Other than watch a movie, what did you do?”

  “Normal things. Made popcorn, talked about whether we liked the film. After it was over, she didn’t stay long.”

  “Did you ever touch her, Mr. Nixon?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Not even a goodnight kiss?”

  With a look of outrage, Ernie straightened in his chair. “She was sixteen, Mr. Lord.”

  “Indeed. Where did her parents think she was?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “But according to Mrs. Calder, they didn’t know she was with you. Why would Marcie hide it?”<
br />
  “I don’t know that she did. Or why she would.”

  “No? And yet, when Ms. Marz asked you, you didn’t tell the jury about any of these visits.”

  “They were normal, like I said. What stuck in my mind was how different she was the night she died.”

  Tony paused. “During these ‘normal’ Saturday nights when she’d come to see you, was it your understanding that Marcie had a boyfriend?”

  “My understanding was that she didn’t. Marcie could be shy. I don’t think she always clicked with guys her own age.”

  “Was it your understanding, at that time, that Marcie Calder had ever had sex?”

  As if it were a luxury, the anger left Ernie’s eyes, replaced by the taut wariness of someone forced to think hard and guess quickly, not knowing where the traps were. “I assumed she hadn’t. I don’t recall we talked about that.”

  “So that six weeks before she died, when Marcie told you she’d begun having sex with an older man, you were surprised.”

  “Yes. I suppose I was.”

  “And jealous?”

  “No—not jealous.” Ernie paused, his voice trembling with fresh outrage. “I was worried for her. This was a sixteen-year-old girl, being exploited by an older man.…”

  The answer trailed off. “An older man,” Tony said softly, “who Marcie said was teaching her things.”

  Ernie’s eyes filled with hatred and humiliation. His answer, “Yes,” was a hiss of air.

  Stay calm, Tony reminded himself. “And so, on the night she died, you asked her not to go to him.”

  “I wanted her to stop and think.”

  “And when she didn’t, you followed her out the door.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you touch her then?”

  Ernie glanced at the jury. “What I may have done,” he said at last, “was grasp her arm. Just so I could say one final thing.”

  “Which was?”

  “Not to go.”

  “And when she did, you followed her.”

  “Yes.”

  Tony paused. “You followed her,” he repeated softly, “to find out who the father was.”

  Ernie twisted in the witness chair, plainly aware of how this sounded now. “Yes.”

  “And you did, didn’t you?” Pausing, Tony kept his own voice quiet. “You followed Marcie Calder to the gas station and saw her get in Sam Robb’s car. And then you followed them to the park.”

  Ernie Nixon’s chest heaved. “No,” he said in a thick voice. “I came home. Like I said.”

  “When was that, Mr. Nixon?”

  “About eight-thirty.”

  “Did anyone see you?”

  Wearily, Ernie shook his head. “I don’t know. Depends if they were watching me.”

  Tony walked closer. “You know Taylor Park well, don’t you?”

  There was silence. For himself, Tony would have given a great deal not to see the terrible look of betrayal Ernie gave him, personal and years deep; it reflected far too clearly the day a black teenager had taken a white one to the park, to express belief in his innocence. “You know that,” Ernie answered softly. “When I was a kid, I played there.”

  “And hid there.”

  “Yes.”

  “Sometimes even slept there overnight.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you learned all the hiding places.”

  Ernie folded his arms again, his eyes expressionless once more. “I was a kid,” he repeated. “Kids like hiding places. Grown-ups don’t.”

  Tony cocked his head. “Do you have any way of proving that when Marcie Calder was in Taylor Park, you weren’t watching her?”

  Ernie looked at him steadily. “At ten-eighteen,” he said, “I called my wife. I still have the record of the call.”

  It was Tony’s first surprise. He imagined Stella, knowing or guessing Tony’s intentions, grilling Ernie on any way he might eliminate, or narrow, time he could not account for; though it did not close the door, a ten-eighteen telephone call left Ernie precious little time to commit murder. With as much unconcern as he could muster, Tony asked, “How long did you talk to her?”

  “I didn’t. I got her machine.”

  “Did you leave a message?”

  “No. There was nothing I wanted to say to a machine.”

  This could sound like an alibi, Tony saw at once—a call made to place Ernie in the house. In a tone of skepticism, Tony asked, “Why did you call in the first place?”

  Ernie considered him. “To ask Dee if she’d come back,” he answered softly. “Give me another chance.”

  “Had you talked about that?”

  “Not for months.” Ernie paused, looking directly at Tony. “That night, I thought about a lot of things. Dee was where my thoughts ended up. Dee, and our kids.”

  If he followed Ernie’s psychology, Tony thought, this was at least plausible: a man, confronting where a semiconscious fantasy had taken him, jolted back to what was real and important. “Did you ask your wife to come back?”

  Slowly, Ernie shook his head. “The next morning, it seemed hopeless. Something about the difference between darkness and sunlight.”

  It was, perhaps, true—or an excuse for not having a conversation that Ernie Nixon had never meant to have, offered to cover his lie now. But it led Tony, at last, to where he had known he must go since the night, three months before, when he had promised Sue Robb that he would try to give her an innocent husband.

  Walking back to the defense table, Tony felt the jury follow him. With a fractional smile—the slightest narrowing of his eyes—Saul Ravin handed Tony a small manila envelope.

  Unsealing it, Tony reached inside and extracted a black plastic watch. “Your Honor,” he said. “I have here what has been proposed as defense Exhibit 1—as you see, a plastic watch. I ask the court to receive it into evidence, so that I can ask Mr. Nixon about it.”

  Judge Karoly turned to Stella. “Ms. Marz?”

  Stella stood. “I don’t understand what we’re doing, Your Honor. To my knowledge, this watch has nothing to do with this case.”

  Tony stepped forward. “With counsel’s indulgence, I’ll ask one or two brief questions. Which may well prove her right. I can state for the record that I bought this at a drugstore yesterday.”

  Karoly raised his eyebrows. “Go ahead, Mr. Lord.”

  Quickly, Tony handed the watch to Ernie Nixon. “To your memory, Mr. Nixon, is this the type of watch Marcie Calder was wearing the night she died?”

  Ernie fingered the watch, brow furrowed. “I really don’t remember it.”

  “Please, take a good look.”

  Ernie turned it in his hand. “It really doesn’t help,” he said in a weary voice. “That night, the last thing I cared about was her watch.”

  Tony shrugged. “All right,” he said, and took the watch from Ernie’s hand.

  Facing Judge Karoly, Stella said, “We have Marcie Calder’s watch, Your Honor. This watch proves nothing and is therefore useless as an exhibit.”

  “Given Mr. Nixon’s testimony,” Tony said to Karoly, “we won’t quarrel.” Putting the watch back into the envelope, he handed it to Saul, who assumed a look of boredom and disinterest.

  Once more, Tony turned to Ernie. Softly, he asked, “Do you consider yourself a violent man?”

  Ernie sat straight again, achieving a credible, if tenuous, dignity. “No,” he said tersely. “I don’t.”

  “Then perhaps you can tell me why your marriage broke up.”

  “Dee and I had disagreements. She didn’t like Lake City—”

  “She didn’t like being hit, did she?”

  Despite himself, Ernie flinched. “Objection,” Stella said. “Irrelevant.”

  Gazing at Judge Karoly, Tony spread his arms. “Do I have to spell it out, Your Honor?”

  With narrowed eyes, Karoly studied the witness. “No. You don’t. Objection overruled.”

  Turning to Ernie, Tony saw the beautician turn with him, as if demandi
ng an answer. “I’ll ask you again, Mr. Nixon. Did your wife object when you struck her on the face?”

  Ernie’s own face was suffused with shame and anger. “It only happened once—just once, in fifteen years of marriage—and you’re talking to me like—”

  “Did you hurt her?” Tony snapped.

  “Yes. That once.”

  “And—that once—her lip bled, and her mouth became swollen.”

  Ernie exhaled. “Yes.”

  “And, within days, your wife left you.”

  “Yes.”

  “So, effectively, this marked the end of your marriage.”

  “It was a lot of things.…”

  “What had your wife done, in your view, to earn being struck in the face? Let alone with enough force to do that.”

  “No woman deserves that. We’d fought, and Dee said things that hurt me, and I hit her without thinking. Right away, I apologized—”

  “But by then,” Tony cut in softly, “she was bleeding.”

  “Yes.”

  “You must have been quite angry, Mr. Nixon.”

  “Yes. I was. But only for that moment.”

  “A moment’s all it takes. So perhaps you can tell us, precisely, what your wife said which caused you to lose control.”

  Ernie gazed at him with glassy eyes. “I don’t remember.”

  “Really. Didn’t the name of Marcie Calder come up?”

  “I don’t remember—”

  “Specifically, didn’t your wife call Marcie Calder your fantasy white girl and accuse you of wanting to sleep with her?”

  Stuck with his evasion, unable to turn back, Ernie Nixon summoned all the dignity he possessed. Arms folded, he answered softly, “People say a lot of ugly things in a marriage. It’s best not to remember them.”

  Tony gave Ernie the long look of disbelief he had earned. “Yeah,” he said with equal quiet. “I might not want to remember that one, either. Especially now.”

  Ernie simply stared at him, his sensitive face stripped of all defenses, save the one Tony remembered from his youth, the weary fatalism of a boy taught to expect too little, whether in loyalty or in simple friendship. Suddenly Tony could not look at him.

  “No further questions,” he said to Karoly, and sat down. The last face he noticed, as he had at the beginning, was Sue’s, looking at Tony with compassion.

  * * *

  It was a two-martini night. Midway through the second one, Tony began to imagine Ernie Nixon, pacing his empty home. What might his night be like, Tony wondered, and what might he face in the morning?