Silent Witness

by Richard North Patterson

  Sam shifted in his chair, trapped and restless. Tony’s discomfort was different—the answer might remind the jury that Sam Robb had not testified.

  Stella moved closer. “But the police did find Marcie Calder’s hairs in the back seat of the car, didn’t they?”

  “According to the report.”

  “And on the headrest of the passenger seat?”

  “That’s what the report said.”

  “And there was no blood on the defendant’s clothes, right?”

  “Not according to the report.”

  “And yet you believe there was blood on his hands?”

  “Yes.”

  “Doesn’t that suggest that Mr. Robb had changed his clothes and lied to the police?”

  “Not necessarily, Ms. Marz. Perhaps Mr. Robb simply didn’t get any blood on his clothes.”

  Against his will, Tony imagined Sam in bloody clothes, desperate to get rid of them. But the image went black—there was no evidence that this was so. Next to him, his friend’s face was vulnerable again, filled with shame and sadness.

  “The police report,” Stella prodded, “also noted gray-blond hairs on Ms. Calder’s clothes, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Those hairs matched the defendant’s, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Doesn’t that indicate that Marcie and the defendant achieved some degree of intimacy while she was dressed?”

  “It does.”

  “And yet, Dr. Shapiro, none of Marcie’s hairs are on the clothes Sam Robb says he was wearing.”

  “Yes. I said that.”

  “Did either you, or the police lab, find any hairs on Marcie Calder’s clothes which appeared to belong to an African-American?”

  “No.”

  “Wouldn’t you expect some, if Ms. Calder were involved in a struggle with an African-American assailant?”

  Shapiro shrugged. “That assumes too many facts, Ms. Marz. Was there a struggle? Where did the assailant touch the victim? Your question is impossible to answer.”

  This was a fair response, Tony knew, and the jury seemed to know it. They turned expectantly to Stella.

  Stella stopped, frustration briefly crossing her face, and then she looked serene again. “Then let’s turn to the tuna sandwich,” she said. “Assuming that Marcie ate the sandwich at approximately eight o’clock, do you agree that she would have fully digested it by ten o’clock?”

  “Only approximately. You have to allow a half hour either way, as Dr. Micelli conceded. So a homicide could have occurred as late as ten-thirty.”

  Stella tilted her head. “But not a homicide involving Mr. Nixon, correct? Assuming that his telephone records are correct and that he placed a call to his estranged wife at ten-eighteen.”

  “Assuming that, true. I have no knowledge, one way or the other.”

  “But you’re also aware that Mr. Robb claims to have left Marcie Calder at around ten o’clock?”

  “Yes.”

  “So this gives Mr. Nixon roughly eighteen minutes to find Marcie Calder in the dark, locate a rock, hit her on the head three times, drag her to the edge of the cliff without leaving any hairs on her clothes, throw her off, return to his car, drive two miles to his home, and call his wife in Chicago.”

  Shapiro looked faintly amused. “Assuming that Mr. Robb’s ten o’clock estimate was right, yes.”

  “On that assumption, do you think Mr. Nixon—or anyone—could have done all this in eighteen minutes?”

  Shapiro pondered his answer. “To start,” he said finally, “the assumption about time is a big one. If Mr. Robb left the park at nine-thirty or nine forty-five, everything changes. And we have no indication that his statement to the police was precise, or that time was the biggest thing on his mind.

  “But I’ll assume for a moment that Mr. Robb’s guess is right on the money. Could Mr. Nixon have done all that in eighteen minutes? I need more information. For instance, did Mr. Nixon stop to change his clothes, or did he run right home? And we’ve got no physical evidence with respect to Mr. Nixon, because the Lake City police never gathered any.

  “But yeah—it’s feasible that he could have done all that. Especially if he called his ex-wife as soon as he got home.” Pausing, Shapiro faced the jury, finishing his answer. “I’m certainly not saying that’s what happened. All I’m saying is that, hypothetically, it could have happened. I’m also saying, quite emphatically, that—if this is a murder—there’s nothing to say that the murderer has to be Mr. Robb.”

  At the corner of his eye, Tony saw Saul regard the table, trying not to smile. Wounded, Stella tried to recover.

  “Let’s summarize where we are, Dr. Shapiro. There’s no affirmative evidence to suggest that Marcie Calder fell over the cliff by accident?”

  “Affirmative evidence? No.”

  “Or affirmative evidence that she killed herself?”

  “No.”

  “Nor is there any affirmative evidence that Sam Robb was in the clothes he said he was wearing?”

  “No.”

  “But there is affirmative evidence that he had anal intercourse with Marcie Calder, then lied to the police?”

  “There seems to be. Yes.”

  “There is affirmative evidence that Sam Robb fathered Marcie’s unborn child? And lied about that?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Marcie Calder’s body shows no signs of another assailant—no hair, no skin beneath her nails, nothing?”

  “That’s true. But as you point out, the only hairs on her clothes—Sam Robb’s hairs—could have gotten there because of sexual intimacy. So there is no physical evidence—hair or skin—to suggest she was assaulted at all. Let alone that Mr. Robb assaulted her.” Shapiro paused for a brief, lethal moment. “That includes the blood on the steering wheel, which I already explained.”

  It was the answer of the skilled expert; waiting for his moment, Shapiro had driven home the essence of Sam’s defense.

  “Isn’t it quite possible,” Stella rejoined, “that Mr. Robb murdered Marcie Calder and that the blood from the murder became commingled with material from the condom already on his fingers?”

  Shapiro propped his elbow on the witness stand, head resting on the palm of his hand. “Possible?” he answered. “I can’t rule it out. But I don’t think it’s likely that this would account for the amount of resin and fecal matter found in the blood smear.”

  “But you can’t say, can you, that the blood wasn’t derived from Marcie Calder’s head injuries?”

  “No, I can’t. All that I can say is that there are compelling reasons not to assume that it was. Or that it implicates Sam Robb in a murder.”

  Stella paused, stymied for a moment. Leaning his head to Saul’s, Tony whispered, “Have we done enough?”

  Saul looked at the jury, then at Sam. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I think we’ve done enough.”

  TWENTY

  Tony and Sam sat alone in the witness room. “I want to rest our case tomorrow,” Tony said.

  Sam gave him a long, cool look. “My case, Tony. My case.”

  Tony sat back, tired. The first moments after adjournment had been spent thanking Peter Shapiro; stalling the bespectacled Vanity Fair reporter who wished to interview Tony about Alison Taylor; arranging a working dinner with Saul. When Tony glanced at Sue, her expression was one of deep preoccupation, and she did not see him. Then Tony’s gaze was interrupted by a hand on his arm; turning, he saw Sam look from Sue to him. Tersely, Sam said, “We need to talk,” and Tony knew at once that there would be trouble.

  Now, trapped with Sam in the witness room, Tony felt tense and claustrophobic. “Whoever’s case it is,” Tony answered, “I believe I can win it. I think we’ve got reasonable doubt.”

  Sam stared at him. “They think I did it. I’ve been watching their faces, and they think I’m guilty.”

  Tony drew a breath. “They may suspect that, but they don’t know it. My job was never to make you look innocent, or e
ven sympathetic. It’s only to make you ‘not guilty’—”

  “To get me off, you mean. To get a guilty man acquitted because his lawyer’s so fucking clever.” Sam stood abruptly, voice rising. “They hate me, Tony. The people on the jury, and the people in my own town. I buggered a teenage girl and lied about it. I knocked her up and lied about that. I lied to my wife and Marcie’s parents. Hell, I lied to just about everyone.…”

  “True. You did. So now you want to testify? Have you forgotten our practice session the other day…?”

  “Dammit, they already know all that. What’s to keep them from thinking I’m capable of murder? How could I make it any worse?”

  “By having to admit ‘all that’ to the jury and then asking them to believe you’re a swell guy. By seeming like someone who wants more than fairness—who wants their fucking sympathy. By looking like a liar who thinks they’re gullible and stupid.” Tony felt his temple throb. “Sam, we’re talking about chemistry between you and twelve strangers who weren’t sympathetic going in. Bad chemistry can overcome everything I’ve tried to do here. If the jury decides they hate you—that they don’t want to believe you no matter what’s true—it’s over. Reasonable doubt won’t do it.”

  Sam leaned forward. “Tony,” he said softly, “I didn’t kill her. If I can’t stand up and say I’m innocent, then I can’t live in Lake City. I can’t win back Sue or face the kids. I’ve got no chance to ever put this behind me.”

  What Tony felt inside him, he realized, was the worm of his own fear—that his friend would be destroyed, then sent away to prison. “What if you’re convicted?” he asked.

  Sam’s gaze was intense: in the hot, airless room, his forehead was stained with red. “Then I lose this half-life you want me to lead—Sam Robb, the guy who hid behind his lawyer.” All at once, his voice was raw, accusatory, as if Tony’s real motive had just struck him. “Is that what you want—for me to hide behind you, with some people doubting me about Marcie like they doubt you about Alison? How can you fucking want that for me?”

  “I didn’t put you here, dammit.” Tony stood, face inches from Sam’s. “You did, and you’ve got too much to explain.”

  Tony saw Sam’s throat work, watched him struggle for self-control. Quietly, Sam asked, “You think I did it, don’t you?”

  Tony shoved his hands in his pockets, fighting his own temper. There was nothing left but the truth. “I don’t know, Sam. I really don’t. But on the evidence, you surely could have.”

  To Tony’s surprise, Sam looked less angry than curious. “How do you live with that?” he asked. “Wondering if I killed her?”

  “Not easily. And not well.”

  “I don’t live with it so well, either. And if you think that, everyone does.” Sam backed away, leaning against the wall with folded arms. “You never had your day in court, Tony. So some people, like Alison’s parents, still think it was you, not that black rapist they shot—”

  “Some people, Sam? Or you?”

  Sam’s eyes glinted. “No. Not me anymore. And I don’t know whether fucking Ernie killed Marcie Calder, or if she fell off the goddamned cliff. All I know, like you told me about Alison, is that I didn’t do it. But there’s one difference between you and me. I got charged with murder. Which gives me the right to get up in front of God and everyone and say I didn’t do it—”

  “God and Stella Marz,” Tony snapped. “She’s damn near drooling—every few days she asks if I’ll put you on. Do you need me to remind you of what she’ll do to you?”

  “Do to me? The fucking dyke’s already done it.” Suddenly, Sam’s voice changed; it was low and measured, the voice of a man speaking a terrible truth. “You still want me to depend on you, don’t you? To be the quarterback. We’re still back in high school, and you’re still telling me what the play’s going to be, with the same cool blue eyes, the same cool voice, so cool it’s like you’re living in a different place than any of the rest of us, where nothing reaches you.

  “Well, it’s my play to call now, because it’s my life. I can make them believe me, Tony. I need them to, need it—”

  Sam stopped abruptly, as if the nakedness of his admission had frightened him. In the silence that followed, Tony said simply, “If you trip up, Stella may bring the second girl in on you. Jenny Travis.”

  As if deflated, his friend sagged against the wall; Sam was prepared for anger, Tony thought, but not for calm or reason. Perhaps this was the part of Tony that, for its self-control, Sam Robb had always feared and hated.

  “I’m sorry,” Sam said at last. “I didn’t mean that stuff.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  Sam closed his eyes. “Maybe I did,” he answered softly. “You’ve always been the sensible one, the one who never lost it. That was what always made you better than me—not talent or even smarts, but this thing you had that no one could ever take from you.” He exhaled. “So yeah, maybe I did.”

  Opening his eyes, Sam looked straight at Tony. “But this isn’t about sensible, pal. It’s about—what would you Catholics call it?—redemption. The only way to redeem myself is to go through this. It’s the only way I can face other people, face myself. To convince them that killing Marcie Calder isn’t me.”

  “Killer, killer…”

  In the silence, Tony felt himself transported to another time and place, a high school gym where catcalls echoed.…

  Why don’t you pretend the ball is Alison’s neck…?

  At the school board meeting, accused of murder by John Taylor, Tony had sat silent as Saul spoke for him.…

  Why are you being such a snob? Mary Jane Kulas had asked. Like you don’t care what people think …

  Tony had ached to say this was not so.

  He says I shouldn’t talk to anyone, he had said to Sam and Sue. Even though I’m innocent …

  Tony rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Saul gave me a life,” he said. “I want to give you yours back. That’s all this is about, Sam. Not my vanity, not my needs. Not even about you and me.”

  “It is, though. You didn’t do it, and I didn’t help you. Now I didn’t do it, and I’m asking for your help anyway.” Sam sat across from Tony again. “They’re waiting for me, Tony—the jury, everyone in the courtroom, the people in my town. They’re waiting, and they’re wondering: Does Sam Robb have the guts to face us and say he’s not a murderer?” His voice became soft. “Maybe, when I do, they’ll find me guilty. Then it’ll be me, not you, sitting there in the Ohio State Penitentiary, waiting and maybe hoping to die. But if that’s what has to be, and I don’t testify, then I’ll have a very long time to wonder what might have happened if I’d stood up for myself. And I know I’d rather die than live with that.”

  For once, there was nothing Tony could say. Quiet, Sam reached across the table and covered Tony’s hand with his. “Stand behind me, Tony. Help me be as good a quarterback as I can be, as good a man as I can be. Then maybe you’ll believe in me. Sometimes I think that would mean more to me than anything else.”

  There were tears in Sam’s eyes, Tony saw. After a moment, Tony said, “Then we’ve got a lot to do.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Sam Robb sat on the witness stand, his striped tie carefully knotted, his gray-blond hair neatly combed. His candid blue eyes swept the courtroom; even amidst the tension, Tony sensed Sam’s relief that, whatever the consequences, he would at last speak for himself. But faced with such disapproval, Sam also seemed taut, twitchy, unsure of where to look or how to act. It reminded Tony of one of the few times he had seen Sam in a suit, on the day of Alison’s funeral, and Sue had rescued Sam from his own awkwardness. Tony himself felt tight; he did not want to be part of his friend’s destruction, did not even care to watch.

  Softly, Tony asked, “What was your relationship with Marcie Calder?”

  Pretending to face his lawyer, Sam did not quite look anywhere, and there was a hollow sound to his voice. “At first, she was just a student, someone on my track team, then someone
I was proud of. Six weeks before she died, we started a relationship.…”

  To the side, Tony saw Stella watching Sam with a cold, unblinking focus. “How did that happen?” Tony asked.

  Sam puffed his cheeks, blowing out a breath of air. “She was young and pretty…,” he began, then started over with a dogged air, his voice flat but under control. “Marcie needed someone—me, she thought. For years I’d been watching these teenage guys be what I used to be, a hero. Now I was someone’s hero again.” Sam’s throat worked, and he shook his head. “I mean, she was nothing like Sue. But she reminded me of when Sue and I were young.…” Startlingly, he looked up at the Calders. “I took advantage of her. If I hadn’t been so selfish, none of us would be here. And now there’s nothing I can do that’s any good to anyone.”

  Tony realized that he could barely breathe. He did not know where this was going, what Sam would say, how Marcie’s parents must feel, and when the harsh crack of Stella’s voice would interrupt. But Stella was simply watching.

  “You lied to your wife,” Tony said. “Didn’t you?”

  “Yes. To Sue. To Marcie’s parents. To the police.” A sheen of tears appeared in Sam’s eyes. “I was frightened and ashamed.”

  Tony felt as if he and Sam were encased in a cocoon constructed of a deep, pained silence. “You had sexual intercourse with her,” Tony said flatly.

  “Yes.” Sam’s fingers touched the bottom of his tie. “The first time was in Taylor Park. In a sleeping bag.” His voice filled with shame and wonder. “Anytime, I could have stopped it.…”

  Karoly stared at his hands; it seemed that, like Tony and the jurors, the judge wished he were not here. There are moments in the lives of others, Tony thought, that excite both our disgust and our shame, the fear of what we ourselves might do. The sole defense is to turn away, and Sam had now denied that choice to anyone here.

  “Did you use birth control?” Tony asked.

  “A condom.” Sam paused. “The first time, it broke.…”

  “But you didn’t stop, did you?”

  Sam shook his head. “I tried, but … I just wanted her too much—the newness, the excitement. Even this sickening feeling of tenderness about what this girl had given me, a middle-aged man.…”