It was Derek who answered the door when I rang. He froze. Just gawped at me with his big dumb syrupy brown eyes until I finally said, “Hi, Derek.”
“Hey, Andy.”
The Yoo kids had always called Laurie and me by our first names, a permissive practice I never quite got used to and which, under the current circumstances, grated all the more.
“Can I talk to you a minute?”
Again, Derek seemed unable to formulate any answer at all. He stared at me.
From the kitchen, Derek’s dad, David Yoo, called, “Derek, who is it?”
“It’s all right, Derek,” I reassured him. His panic seemed almost comical. Why on earth was he so rattled? He had seen me a thousand times.
“Derek, who is it?”
I heard a chair scrape along the kitchen floor. David Yoo came out into the front hall and, with a hand placed lightly around the back of Derek’s neck, he drew his son back away from the door. “Hi, Andy.”
“Hi, David.”
“Was there something we can do for you?”
“I just wanted to talk to Derek.”
“Talk about what?”
“About the case. What happened. I’m trying to find out who really did it. Jacob is innocent, you know. I’m helping prepare for the trial.”
David nodded in an understanding way.
His wife, Karen, now came out of the kitchen and greeted me briefly, and they all stood together in the doorway like a family portrait.
“Can I come in, David?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“We’re on the witness list, Andy. I don’t think we’re supposed to talk to anyone.”
“That’s ridiculous. This is America-you can talk to whoever you want.”
“The prosecutor told us not to talk to anyone.”
“Logiudice?”
“That’s right. He said, don’t talk to anyone.”
“Well, he meant reporters. He didn’t want you running around making conflicting statements. He’s just thinking about the cross-examination. I’m trying to find the tru-”
“That’s not what he said, Andy. He said, don’t talk to anyone.”
“Yes, but he can’t say that. Nobody can tell you not to talk to anyone.”
“I’m sorry.”
“David, this is my son. You know Jacob. You’ve known him since he was a kid.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Well, can I at least come in and we’ll talk about it?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
We locked eyes.
“Andy,” he said, “this is our family time. I really don’t appreciate you being here.”
He went to close the door. His wife stopped him, holding the edge of the door, imploring him with her eyes.
“Please don’t come back here,” David Yoo told me. He added, weakly, “Good luck.”
He removed Karen’s hand from the door and gently closed it and, I could hear, he slid the chain into the lock.
16
I was greeted at the Magraths’ apartment door by a dumpy, pie-faced woman with a frizz of unsprung black hair. She wore black spandex leggings and an oversized T-shirt with an equally oversized message stamped across the front: Don’t Give Me Attitude, I Have One of My Own. This witticism ran six full lines, drawing my eyes southward over her person from wavering bosom to detumescent belly, a journey I regret even now.
I said, “Is Matthew here?”
“Who wants to know?”
“I represent Jacob Barber.”
A blank look.
“The murder in Cold Spring Park.”
“Ah. You his lawyer?”
“Father, actually.”
“It’s about time. I was beginning to think that kid was all alone in the world.”
“How’s that?”
“It’s just we been waiting for someone to show up here. It’s been weeks. Where’s the cops already?”
“Can I just-is Matthew Magrath here? That’s your son, I assume?”
“You sure you’re not a cop?”
“Pretty sure, yeah.”
“Probation officer?”
“No.”
She put a hand on her hip, tucking it under the little skirt of fat that circled her waist.
“I’d like to ask him about Leonard Patz.”
“I know.”
The woman’s behavior was so strange-not just her cryptic answers but the oddball way she looked up at me-that I was slow to grasp what she was saying about Patz.
“Is Matt here?” I repeated, anxious to be rid of her.
“Yeah.” She swung the door open. “Matt! There’s someone here to see you.”
She shuffled back into the apartment as if she had lost interest in the whole thing. The apartment was small and cluttered. Posh a suburb as Newton is, there are still corners that working people can afford. The Magraths lived in a small two-bedroom apartment in a white vinyl-sided house subdivided into four units. It was early evening, and the light inside was dim. A Red Sox game played on an enormous, ancient rear-projection TV. Facing the TV was a mottled, mustard-colored plush armchair, into which Mrs. Magrath dropped herself.
“You like baseball?” she said over her shoulder. “ ’Cuz I do.”
“Sure.”
“You know who they’re playing?”
“No.”
“I thought you said you liked baseball.”
“I’ve had some other things on my mind.”
“It’s the Blue Jays.”
“Ah. The Blue Jays. How could I forget?”
“Matt!” she blasted. Then, to me: “He’s in there with his girlfriend doing God knows what. Kristin, that’s the girlfriend. Kid hasn’t said two words to me all the times she’s been over here. Treats me like I’m a piece of shit. Just wants to go running off with Matt like I don’t even exist. Matt too. He only wants to be with Kristin. They got no time for me, the both of them.”
I nodded. “Oh.”
