“Calling my friend is not a crime. And you don’t have to listen.”
The look in her eyes tells me she’s made up her mind. She walks toward the bedroom, the phone to her ear. I turn, frustrated, and catch a glimpse of Jack coming down the hall, wiping his mouth with a washcloth. The aura of self-assuredness that usually surrounds him has vanished. He trudges through the kitchen on heavy legs and plops back into his seat at the table.
I begin to rub my fingers through my hair and notice that they’re trembling. I feel anger-anger that Judge Green set all of this into motion, anger that I’m helpless to do anything about it, anger that my wife is acting like a stubborn fool-but I also feel fear. I know what the system is capable of. I know what it can do to the guilty, and I know what it can do to the innocent. My mind conjures up an image of Tommy strapped to a gurney, an IV hooked to his arm. I fear for Tommy, but I also fear for my son.
“I can’t believe this,” Jack says quietly. He stares down at the table, as though in a trance.
“Think,” I say. “Think about everything he said and did.”
“Why? Even if I remember something that might help the police, do you think I’m going to tell them? We’re talking about my best friend here. We’re talking about someone whose life was ripped apart for no good reason, someone who didn’t deserve it. Even if he did kill the judge-and I don’t believe for a second that he did-I’ll be damned if I’m going to help them pin it on him.”
His words shock me to the point of incredulity. I bore in on him, my voice much louder than I intend it to be.
“What the hell is going on here? Has everyone in this house suddenly gone insane?”
He doesn’t respond, and I look away in silence, not wanting to comprehend what I’m hearing. Jack has worked hard all his life. He’s been an excellent student, a great athlete, a great kid. He has a promising future. He’s going to earn a degree from one of the finest universities in the country. He has a chance to achieve his lifelong dream of playing professional baseball. And now he sits in front of me telling me he’s willing to take a chance on throwing it all away over a sense of misguided loyalty. I turn back to him.
“Jack, listen to me. You don’t know what you’re up against. A man has been killed, and not just any man. A judge. I don’t care what you thought of him or what I thought of him or what anyone else thought of him. The position he held is as symbolic as it is powerful. He wore a robe, Jack. Think about that. A black robe. Do you think the people around here are just going to sit by and let someone kill one of their most powerful symbols and get away with it? Somebody’s going to burn for this. If Tommy did it, they’re going to catch him, and they’ll probably kill him. If you get in the way, you’ll go down with him.”
“What are you talking about?” he yells. “I didn’t do anything. I went to bed last night, and I woke up this morning. That’s it.”
“He was here when you woke up. That’s all it takes.”
Jack tenses. The muscles in his neck, shoulders, and chest ripple beneath his skin like waves on a pond.
“All it takes? For what? For the government to invade my life, my privacy? For them to drag me down to the police station and force me to betray my best friend, even though I have no idea what he did last night and I don’t believe he committed a crime?”
“If they ask you if you saw him, you have to tell them the truth. And believe me, they’ll ask you.”
“I don’t have to talk to them! Listen to yourself! You sound like a freaking Nazi! Don’t forget, Dad-I grew up in this house with you. I’ve heard you say it a thousand times. ‘People don’t have to talk to the police.’ How many times have I heard you say, ‘If he’d just kept his mouth shut, he would’ve never been caught’?”
“This is different.”
“How?” His tone is now defiant. “How is it different? If the police come knocking on my door, I can tell them to piss up a rope, right? I can tell them to go to hell. As a matter of fact, I don’t have to tell them anything.”
He’s right, to a degree. A private citizen doesn’t have to speak to the police if he doesn’t want to. But unless he’s the target of a criminal investigation, he can be subpoenaed to testify in front of a grand jury. If he refuses to answer questions, the presiding judge can throw him in jail until he changes his mind or until the grand jury’s term ends. It’s a practice used regularly by the federal government. They convene investigative grand juries all the time. I’ve seen the feds use them to the point of extortion.
On the other hand, the locals have never used the grand jury as an investigative tool; not once, to my knowledge. Local grand juries are nothing more than rubber stamps for cops and prosecutors, largely because the only people who ever appear before them are cops and prosecutors. The prosecutors ask all the questions and the cops provide all the answers, meaning they can choreograph the proceedings to suit their needs. Sadly, the old saying that a local prosecutor can indict a ham sandwich is true.
“They can force you to answer questions if they want to,” I say. “If you refuse, they can throw you in jail.”
“What about my right to remain silent?”
“The fact that you grew up in a house with a lawyer doesn’t make you a lawyer. There are a lot of things about the law you don’t know.”
“Enlighten me.”
I throw up my hands in frustration.
“What do you want me to do, Jack? I’m an assistant district attorney. Before I leave for work this morning, I find Tommy Miller asleep in my house. After I leave for work, I find out that Judge Green has been murdered and Tommy is a suspect. I come home to try to figure out what’s going on, and my wife decides to jump into the middle of it and my son tells me he’s going to hide behind his constitutional rights. Put yourself in my place.”
“Hide?” Jack says, his voice rising again. “You think choosing to exercise my right to stay out of this is hiding? You’ve really changed, haven’t you? Whatever happened to the dad who always told me, ‘Don’t ever let the government in your life, son. You can’t trust them’? Whatever happened to the dad who always told me that real friends should be treasured and that loyalty is important? What happened to that guy?”
“You need to calm down.”
He rises from the chair, his fingertips pushing against the table. His face, so pale earlier, is now flushed with anger. I’ve never seen him like this.
“Do you know what I need, Dad?” he says through tight lips. “Right now, this very minute, do you know what I really need?”
“Tell me.”
“What I need is a lawyer! A good one! One who’s on my side! Now, are you going to help me or not?”
16
“What do you think? Have I broken through the glass ceiling? Tell me the truth.”
At thirty-eight years old and after twelve years of busting her backside as a special agent with the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation, Anita White was finally the lead investigator on a high-profile murder case. She looked over at Mike Norcross, the super-hero look-alike who sat in the passenger seat as they drove through the rain.
“I don’t know,” Norcross said. “Depends on why the suits gave it to you. I mean, the boss was one of the first people on the crime scene. He knows how tough it’s going to be. I’m glad he didn’t drop it on me.”
Anita pondered for a minute. She and Norcross had become friends over the past year, and she knew he’d give her an honest opinion, one unaffected by racism, chauvinism, or jealousy. She liked Norcross. His massive physical presence belied the personality beneath. Anita’s experiences with Norcross both in the office and in the field told her he was a smart man, honest and hardworking, gentle at his core, who somehow managed to balance the strenuous demands of the job with the needs of a family.
“So you think I’m a sacrificial lamb?” Anita said.
“I think you’re in for a rough road. It’s a tough crime scene. We won’t get squat as far as physical evidence goes. So unless somebody talks or we get lucky, we might be screwed.”
Norcross was right. The crime scene was difficult. To start with, it was outdoors, and now it had been drenched by a thunderstorm. The judge had apparently been killed outside his vehicle, which meant the inside of his Mercedes would probably yield nothing of value. The killer had stayed primarily in the grass, except when he dragged the judge across the asphalt driveway, which meant there were no usable footprints. The Mercedes had
