An older man with a battered lawyer’s bag came into the detective bureau. His name was Jonathan Klein. He was short, slight, a little stooped. He wore a gray suit with a black turtleneck. His hair was long and strikingly white. He swept it straight back over his head where it hung over the back of his collar. He had a white goatee as well. He said in a soft voice, “Hello, Andy.”
“Jonathan.”
We shook hands with real warmth. I always liked and respected Jonathan Klein. Bookish and vaguely bohemian, he was unlike me. (I am as conventional as white toast.) But he did not lecture or lie, which set him apart from his brethren in the defense bar, who had only a casual regard for the truth, and he was genuinely smart and knew the law. He was—there is no other word for it—wise. Also, it must be said, I had a childish attraction to men of my father’s generation, as if I still harbored a faint hope of being unorphaned, even at this late date.
Klein said, “I’d like to see my client now.” His voice was soft—it was naturally soft, this was not an affectation or a tactic—so that the room tended to grow quiet around him. You found yourself leaning in close to make out what he was saying.
“I didn’t know you were representing this guy, Jonathan. Kind of a low-rent case for you, isn’t it? Some crummy pedophile ball-grabber? It’s bad for your reputation.”
“Reputation? We’re lawyers! Anyway, he’s not here because he’s a pedophile. We both know that. This is a lot of cops to put on a case about ball-grabbing.”
I stepped aside. “All right. He’s right in there. Go on in.”
“You’ll turn off the camera and the microphone?”
“Yeah. You want to use another room instead?”
“No, of course not.” He smiled gently. “I trust you, Andy.”
“Enough to let your man keep talking?”
“No, no. I trust you too much for that.”
And that was the end of Patz’s Q&A.
Nine-thirty P.M.
Laurie lay on the couch gazing at me, her book tented on her belly. She wore a brown V-neck shirt with a wreath of chunky embroidery around the neck, and her tortoiseshell reading glasses. Over the years she had found a way to carry her younger style into middle age; she had upgraded the embroidered peasant blouses and ripped jeans of her brainy funkster teens for a more elegant, tailored version of the same look.
She said, “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Talk about what?”
“Jacob.”
“We already did.”
“I know, but you’re brooding.”
“I’m not brooding. I’m watching TV.”
“The Cooking Channel?” She smiled, warmly skeptical.
“There’s nothing else on. Anyway, I like cooking.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I like watching cooking.”
“It’s okay, Andy. You don’t have to if you’re not ready.”
“It’s not that. It’s just there’s nothing to say.”
“Can I ask you one question?”
I rolled my eyes: Does it matter if I say no?
She picked up the remote from the coffee table and switched off the TV. “When we talked to Jacob today, you said you didn’t think he did anything, but then you turned around and cross-examined him.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You did. You never accused him of anything, exactly, but your tone was … prosecutorial.”
“It was?”
“A little.”
“I didn’t mean for it to be. I’ll apologize to him later.”
“You don’t have to apologize.”
“I do, if that’s how I came off.”
“I’m just asking why. Is there anything you’re not telling me?”
“Like what?”
“Whatever made you go after him that way.”
“I didn’t go after him. Anyway, no, I was just upset about the knife. And what Derek wrote on Facebook.”
“Because Jacob’s had some behavioral—”
“Jesus, Laurie, come on. Be serious. This is just some kids gossiping. If I could get my hands on Derek. That was incredibly stupid, what he wrote. Honestly, sometimes I think that kid isn’t all there.”
“Derek’s not a bad kid.”
“Will you still say that when Jacob gets a knock on the door one day?”
“Is that a real possibility?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Do we have any responsibility here?”
“You mean, is it our fault somehow?”
“Fault? No. I mean, do we have to report it?”
“No. God, no. There’s nothing to report. It’s not a crime to have a knife. It’s not a crime to be a stupid teenager either—thank God, or we’d have to throw half of ’em in the can.”
Laurie nodded neutrally. “It’s just, he’s been accused, and now you know about it. And it’s not like the cops aren’t going to find it anyway; it’s right there on Facebook.”
“It’s not a credible accusation, Laurie. There’s no reason to bring the whole world down on Jake’s head. The whole thing is ridiculous.”
“Is that what you really think, Andy?”
“Yes! Of course. Don’t you?”
She searched my face. “Okay. So this isn’t what’s bothering you?”
“I already told you: nothing’s bothering me.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“What did you do with the knife?”
“I got rid of it.”
“Got rid of it where?”
“I threw it away. Not here. In a Dumpster somewhere.”
“You covered for him.”
“No. I just wanted that knife out of my house. And I didn’t want anyone using it to make Jacob look guilty when he’s not. That’s all.”
“How is that different from covering for him?”
“You can’t cover for someone who didn’t do anything wrong.”
She gave me a searching look. “Okay. I’m going up to bed. You coming?”
“In a little while.”
She got up, came over to plow her fingers through my hair and kiss my forehead. “Don’t stay up too late, sweetheart. You won’t be able to get up in the morning.”
“Laurie, you didn’t answer my question. I asked you what you think? Do you agree it’s ridiculous to think Jacob did this?”
“I think it’s very hard to imagine, yes.”
“But you can imagine it?”
“I don’t know. You mean you can’t, Andy? You can’t even imagine it?”
“No, I can’t. This is our son we’re talking about.”
She pulled back from me visibly, cautiously. “I don’t know. I guess I can’t imagine it either. But then I think: when I woke up this morning, I could not have imagined that knife.”