Scott and I look at each other then turn back to Sam. He leaks nervousness. I tell myself that if I were innocent and in his spot, then maybe I would be filled with anxiety, too. But something about him still smells off. Sam gives me a peculiar look, and alarm bells clamor. A memory stored in an unused warehouse of my brain stirs from the distant past. Something significant just happened, but I have no idea what. Sam launches into another monologue.
“I knew I shouldn’t have come over here. I should’ve insisted that she drop by my office. I didn’t want to come. I told her. I asked about her husband. She said he had to work and would not be back until after midnight, if at all. She was persistent like that, and I came over against my better judgment. The client is always right and all that. I rang the doorbell. No answer. I knocked. No answer. I tried the door. It was unlocked. I walked in, said hello, anybody here. Everything’s quiet. I went to the kitchen and there she was. Lying on the floor. It was awful. I cannot believe this is happening to me.” He pauses before adding, “I didn’t kill her.”
Scott gives Sam a disbelieving look, and Sam wilts in the glare. Giving up on Scott, he turns toward me on the verge of tears.
“You gotta believe me. I didn’t kill her.”
Sam is embarrassing himself at this point. A lawyer should never ramble. Scott and I have yet to ask him a single question, and still he cannot shut up. Our silent treatment is by design. Most witnesses become uncomfortable with the quiet and rush to fill the void. Talking takes the place of the silence that judges them.
Sam complains, “Are you guys going to say anything? I’m in the hot seat here.”
Scott and I continue our quiet vigil. Sam pivots to Scott and then back my way, his anxious eyes begging me to speak. Watching him, the mysterious thought trapped deep in my subconscious emerges in full force. The implications click in an instant—the ghost of Becky Johnson rises again.
I drift back to the first year of law school at the University of Georgia. One Friday night, our circle of friends went to hear a new band play at the Georgia Theatre. Sam begged out at the last minute. We assumed that he ditched us to be with his girlfriend Natalie until we observed her partying on the front row. The next day, Sam explained to me that he had decided to study at home instead of going to the show. As he spoke, his face revealed an odd assortment of conflicting messages—uncertainty, nervousness, guilt, fear. The taint of deceit was unmistakable. I cross-examined him with bloody determination to force his confession—the only thing Sam had studied the night before was Becky Johnson, a third-year law student.
I turn to Scott.
“Can you leave us alone for a few minutes?”
Other detectives would balk. Not Scott. He knows that I will later tell him every word that will pass between Sam and me in his absence. Sam’s sense of relief as Scott leaves the room is physically palpable. I study my old friend with mute detachment and allow the quietness of the room to do its work. Sam’s discomfort grows. He speaks first.
“What? Why won’t you say anything?”
I wait a few moments before replying, “I’m trying to figure out what to do with you.” Memories of law school again beckon from the past. Our group of friends preferred poker to studying. Sam was the resident ATM, losing money to us with the regularity of a steady paycheck. Strategically, he knew the correct plays, but his facial expressions and body language betrayed him when it mattered most. Even then I wondered how Sam would ever handle delicate negotiations. Tonight’s conversation confirms that some things never change. Sam still flinches when the stakes get too high.
Sam again breaks the quiet and asks in utmost seriousness, “Do I need a lawyer?”
“Did you kill her?”
“No!”
“Then you don’t need a lawyer.”
Sam looks unconvinced. He studies his folded thumbs and teeters on the edge of regressing into a barely-responsive cocoon. I recognize the signs. The soft touch won’t work with him anymore. I need to give him a push.
“Sam, I want to help you, but I cannot help someone who refuses to help himself. You can’t lie to the police without repercussions. You’re part of a murder investigation. There’s a dead body in the kitchen. The good news is that Scott and I are close friends. I can fix what has happened in this room up to this point. You can start over fresh. Clean slate. But the truth needs to start coming out of your mouth. Now.”
Without even looking at me, he says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Becky Johnson.”
The name confuses him for a moment. Then our eyes register mutual understanding, and he accepts my accusation without challenge. But I still need to hear the truth from his own lips.
I emphasize, “I swear to God that if you lie to me now, I will prosecute you for obstruction of justice myself.”
Sam straightens up and nods. Fear gives way to resignation. He asks, “Does Liesa have to know?” Liesa started law school a year behind Sam and me. I attended their wedding. I make no promises but allow that I’ll do what I can. He emits a heavy sigh. “Please try. You don’t understand. I can’t lose her.”
