hold myself against.
Victoria Naparstek is close to me now, sitting in the upper gallery, which has been opened to take the overspill of reporters. Beneath us, the courtroom is a mixture of the new and the old: the vaulted ceilings and coat of arms, as well as microphones and digital recording equipment.
I whisper to Victoria, “So what you’re saying is that Augie had a crush on Patricia Heyman?”
“Yes.”
“She’s old enough to be his-”
“Yes, I know.”
“Were they sleeping together?”
“Not according to Augie, but I think she was fond of him.”
“Fond?”
“Yes, fond. Are you going to repeat everything I say?”
Augie Shaw appears from below, emerging into a square enclosure of bulletproof glass. People crane their heads to catch a glimpse, wanting to put a face to the crime: see the monster not the man.
He sits, handcuffed, between two court security officers. Turning his head, he gazes into the public gallery, searching for someone. His eyes rest on a small woman in the front row with ragged hair and a sharp nose. His mother, not yet fifty, dressed in a flimsy denim jacket and black jeans.
Augie waves. She smiles anxiously, scared for what’s coming.
The prosecutor begins. “Your worship, this is a particularly gruesome double homicide. A husband had his skull crushed and a wife and mother was set on fire while still alive. A quick resolution is obviously welcome, but not a rushed one, which is why detectives need extra time. They wish to make further inquiries and put more questions to the suspect.”
The defense counsel, a young duty solicitor called Reddrop, stumbles over his own name as he introduces himself.
“Your worship, my client has been co-operating fully with the police and has agreed to make himself available for further questioning. Mr. Shaw is a local lad, who lives with his mother and has no criminal record. He does, however, have a history of mental health problems stemming from his childhood. His psychiatrist is here today. She believes his mental state will deteriorate in prison. He is claustrophobic and frightened of authority figures.”
Judge Eccles clears his throat. “Medication, Mr. Reddrop.”
“Yes, your worship, but his psychiatrist Dr. Naparstek assures me that he’s not a threat and he can abide by reporting restrictions…”
The prosecutor hasn’t bothered to sit down.
“Until two weeks ago the defendant worked as a farm laborer and odd-jobber for the Heymans. He was sacked for inappropriate conduct concerning items of clothing that went missing from the house-underwear belonging to the Heymans’ teenage daughter. She is frightened for her safety and doesn’t want Mr. Shaw released.”
“Was the theft reported?”
“No.”
Mr. Reddrop interrupts. “These allegations are denied by my client. He informs me that he went to the Heymans’ house that night to collect his wages and stumbled upon a crime in progress. He burned his hands trying to save the couple.”
“He fled the scene,” says the prosecutor.
“He went for help but suffered some sort of blackout.”
“How convenient.”
Judge Eccles interrupts both men and tells them to sit down. He scribbles a note to himself and rocks back in his chair, producing a thin whistling noise from his nose like a badly played flute.
“I’m going to grant the police request. Detectives have forty-eight more hours.” He addresses Augie. “Mr. Shaw, you will be held in protective custody for a little longer but I’m going to ask that you be well looked after. In the meantime I want a full psychiatric report.”
Augie glances at his brief, wanting an explanation. Mr. Reddrop gives him a sad shrug.
“When can I go home?” he asks in a loud voice.
“You’re still under arrest.”
“But I want to go home.”
Augie is being led away between the two police officers. Victoria Naparstek tries to signal him.
“I’m going to be sick,” he says.
“Not here,” says the officer.
Outside the court, Victoria weaves between the waiting reporters in the foyer, looking for Reddrop. She intercepts him before the main doors. I don’t hear their conversation, but she’s clearly a persuasive woman.
“We can see him,” she says, slipping her arm through mine. “Augie won’t be transferred to prison until later in the day. He’s downstairs.”
Having emptied our pockets and signed the waivers, we are taken along a bleak corridor by a court security officer, who wears his set of keys like a sidearm. The door is unlocked. Augie is squatting on a bunk with his legs folded beneath him like a complicated pair of springs.
He wipes his cheeks and won’t look at Victoria as she takes a seat on the bench opposite.
Some psychologists will tell you that the most important word a patient speaks is the first one. Once events are related, everything that follows becomes a version of the same theme or an attempt to redress a mistake.
I don’t agree. I expect people to lie. I expect them to hide things. The truth is a movable feast. It comes out over time or emerges from the static or the facts that people can live with. Augie looks like a bird on a perch, his head cocked towards the lone window.
“If I’ve done this thing they should just kill me,” he says, scratching at his bandaged hands. “But I haven’t done this thing and I can’t stay in here because I’ll die anyway.”
Victoria reaches out, but Augie pulls away, shuddering.
“Lots of sperm go into making a baby but only one sperm makes it through to fertilize the egg,” he says. “The other sperm are trying to get there first, but they die, you know, they all die.”
“You’re not making sense,” says Victoria.
“The egg splits. Two sperm. That makes us twins.”
He’s talking about his brother.
“… cells replicate, atoms fire, the brain forms…”
Augie turns to me. “I’m just trying to keep people from dying.”
“What people?” I ask.
“If I die, how will I save them?”
His eyes are darting from side to side, dancing in his head.
“I raped a woman. You should have listened.”
“You didn’t rape anyone,” says Victoria.
“I raped five girls at school.”
“That’s not true.”
He stops and stares at me. “Are you here to kill me?”
“No.”
“You’ll kill me eventually.”
“No, I won’t.”
Victoria looks at me, hoping I can help. But as soon as I speak Augie reacts with instant hatred, almost snarling at me. Victoria steps back, frightened. “Are you taking your medication?”
Augie looks at his hands. “You say I have a chemical imbalance. That I suffer from hallucinations. But you’re wrong. What I hear is real.” His shoulders are hunched and a tiny vein throbs at the side of his neck. “I think I killed her.”
“Who?”
“The woman on the road.”
“What woman?”
He whispers in a little boy voice. “What was she doing there? She was standing in the middle of the road.” He
