I could feel the jury’s eyes on me as they seemed to understand, finally, where Jonathan was going-that he was not simply settling for a series of small hits.
“So it didn’t seem improper or unusual or the slightest bit odd to you when Andy Barber, the defendant’s father, focused his attention on this man, this Leonard Patz?”
“No, it didn’t.”
“In fact, based on what you knew at the time, he wouldn’t be doing his job if he didn’t check out this man, would he?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“And, in fact, you learned in your subsequent investigation that Patz was indeed known to walk in that park in the mornings, isn’t that true?”
“Yes.”
“Objection.” There was not much conviction in Logiudice’s voice.
“Overruled.” Plenty of conviction in the judge’s voice. “You opened the door, Counselor.”
I had always disliked Judge French’s tendency to let his sympathies show. He was a ham, and generally his emoting favored the defense. His courtroom always felt like a home game for the defendant. Now that I was on the defendant’s side, of course, I was delighted to see the judge so openly cheerleading for us. It was an easy ruling, anyway. Logiudice had opened this subject. He could not now prevent the defense from exploring it.
I gestured to Jonathan and he came over to accept a piece of paper from me. When he read it, his eyebrows rose. I had written three questions on the paper. He folded the paper neatly and moved closer to the witness stand.
“Detective, did you ever disagree with any of the decisions Andy Barber made when he was leading the investigation?”
“No.”
“And, in fact, isn’t it true that you also wanted to pursue the investigation against this man, Patz, at the beginning of the investigation?”
“Yes.”
A juror-Fat Somerville Guy, in chair number seven-actually snorted and shook his head.
Jonathan heard that guffaw over his shoulder from the jury box, and he looked like he was about to sit down.
I gave him a look that said, Go on.
He frowned. Outside of TV shows, you do not go for the kill on cross-examination. You land a few shots then sit your ass down. The witness, remember, has all the power, not you. Plus, the third line on that page was the archetypal Question You Never Ask On Cross: open-ended, subjective, the sort of question that invites a long, unpredictable answer. To a veteran lawyer, the feeling was like the moment in a horror movie when the babysitter hears a noise in the basement and opens the creaky door to go down and investigate. Don’t do it! the audience says.
Do it, my expression insisted.
“Detective,” he began, “I know this is awkward for you. I’m not asking you to express any opinion about the defendant himself. I understand you have a job to do on that score. But limiting our discussion to the defendant’s father, Andy Barber, whose judgment and integrity has been called into question here-”
“Objection.”
“Overruled.”
“How long have you known the older Mr. Barber?”
“A long time.”
“How long?”
“Twenty years. More, probably.”
“And having known him over twenty years, what is your opinion of him as a prosecutor, with respect to his ability, his integrity, his judgment?”
“We’re not talking about the son? Only the father?”
“That’s right.”
Peterson looked directly at me. “He’s the best they’ve got. The best they used to have, anyway.”
“No further questions.”
No further questions meaning Fuck you. Logiudice would never again focus quite so explicitly on my role in the investigation, though it was a note he touched on a few times in the course of the trial. No doubt, that first day he successfully planted the idea in the jurors’ minds. For the time being, that may have been all he needed to accomplish.
Still, we walked out of the courtroom that afternoon feeling victorious.
It didn’t last.
28
Dr. Vogel informed us grimly, “I’m afraid I have some rather difficult things to say.”
We had all been feeling drained. The stress of a full day in court leaves you bone-tired and muscle-sore. But the doctor’s gloom put us on red alert. Laurie focused on her with an intent expression, Jonathan with his usual owlish curiosity.
Me: “I promise you, we’re used to bad news. At this point, we’re bulletproof.”
Dr. Vogel avoided my eyes.
In hindsight I hear how ridiculous I must have sounded. We parents often talk with ridiculous bravado when it comes to our kids. We swear that we can take any abuse, beat any challenge. No test is too great. Anything for our kids. But no one is bulletproof, parents least of all. Our kids make us vulnerable.
In hindsight I see too that this meeting was exquisitely timed to break us. Only an hour or so had passed since court had adjourned for the day, and as the adrenaline receded, so did our sense of triumph, leaving us doped, punch-drunk. We were in no shape for bad news.
The scene was Jonathan’s office near Harvard Square. We were seated around the circular oak table in his book-walled library, just the four of us, Laurie and me, Jonathan and Dr. Vogel. Jacob was out in the waiting room with Jonathan’s young associate, Ellen.
When Dr. Vogel turned away from me, when she could not look me in the eye, she must have been thinking, You think you’re bulletproof? Just wait.
“How about you, Laurie?” the shrink said in her solicitous, therapeutic voice. “Do you think you can handle this right now?”
“Absolutely.”
Dr. Vogel’s eyes moved over Laurie: her hair, which kinked up like stretched springs, and her complexion, which now looked jaundiced, with dark bags under her eyes. She had lost so much weight, the skin sagged and pouched on her face and her clothes drooped on her bony shoulders. I thought: when did all this deterioration happen? All at once, with the strain of this case? Or gradually, over the years, without my noticing? This was not my Laurie anymore, the brave girl who invented me and who, it now seemed, I had invented for myself. She looked so wasted, in fact, it occurred to me that she was dying before our eyes. The case was consuming her. She was never built for this sort of fight. She had never been hard. She had never had to be. Life never hardened her. It was not her fault, of course, but to me-who felt unbreakable, even this late in the events-Laurie’s fragility was impossibly poignant. I was prepared to be hard for both of us, for all three of us, but there was nothing I could do to protect Laurie from the stress. You see, I could not stop loving her, and I still cannot. Because it is easy to be hard if you have a stony nature. But imagine what it cost Laurie that day as she sat bolt upright at the edge of her chair, gamely focused on the doctor, ready for yet another blow. She never stopped defending Jacob, never stopped analyzing the chessboard, calculating every move and countermove. She never stopped protecting him, even in the end.
