I shift in the courtroom pew, a front-row seat granted me by the prosecution. Noah Walker denied any involvement in Lang’s murder, but Judge Barnett revoked his bond anyway, out of an abundance of caution, so he’s locked up again in Riverhead when he’s not here in court.
“For the record, Mr. Akers is present today for the State, and Mr. Brody is present for the defense.” The judge removes his glasses. “And of course, Mr. Walker, the defendant, is present as well.”
My eyes move to Noah, sitting at the defense table with his hands folded and his eyes cast downward. His feet are crossed, raising the cuffs of his jeans slightly and revealing bare ankles. He didn’t even bother to wear socks to the trial. He looks like a hippie islander.
I let you live, you little shit. You could at least show a little respect.
I replay that moment in his attic bedroom, feel the surge of adrenaline returning. How close I came to doing it. How close I came to putting that bullet between his eyes, instead of firing it over his head.
As if he senses me, Noah turns his head ninety degrees and catches my eyes. He still has the shiner I gave him that night, though it’s now a dull-yellow bruise. The split lip has healed and the swelling dissipated. His jaw probably still hurts, but nothing was broken.
As far as I know, Noah hasn’t publicly complained about how I treated him that night, sneaking into his house, punching and kicking him, not to mention firing a bullet within inches of his scalp. That should be coming any time now, a police brutality lawsuit, probably a request for ten million dollars for his pain and suffering.
But for now, it’s just his eyes locked on mine. Something flutters through my chest as I stare back at him, that nagging feeling that I can’t read him, that I don’t know him. He is neither antagonistic nor smug in his stare. He is neither enjoying himself nor resentful. He just stares at me as if somehow, in some way, we are discovering each other, we are connecting with each other, something is happening between us.
I snap my head away, breaking eye contact, sweat popping at my hairline. I take a deep breath and brush the hair off my face.
He is the worst kind of creep. He’s the kind who can suck you in, the sociopath who can smile at you tenderly while he’s devising monstrous ways to torture you. Well, not me, pal. Not anymore. You may have fooled me initially, but no longer.
I turn back, looking in his direction again. He hasn’t moved. His eyes are still on me, his long dark hair hanging over his unshaven face. My heartbeat kicks into a higher gear. I uncross my legs and play with my hands. I shake my head slowly, discreetly, unsure of the meaning of what I’m doing, answering no to a question that has not been asked. His eyes narrow to a squint. His jaw rises slightly and his lips part, as if he’s going to speak, but surely he won’t, not in the middle of a court session while the judge is talking.
He will never speak to me again. And I will never speak to him.
I get to my feet and walk down the courtroom aisle toward the exit, which is guarded by two sheriff’s deputies. I’m done with Noah Walker. The next time I see him, it will be at his sentencing, after the judge informs him he’ll spend the rest of his life behind bars. Yeah, let’s make eye contact then, pal. Let’s see the look on your face then.
“Mr. Brody,” says the judge, “you have a motion?”
“Yes, Judge, I do.”
Defense lawyers always have motions. They always have bullshit arguments, smoke and mirrors, misdirection. But the next words coming from the mouth of Noah Walker’s lawyer freeze me in my tracks, only a few paces from the courtroom door.
“Your Honor,” he says, “the defense moves for a dismissal of all charges.”
23
THE COURTROOM, ALREADY respectfully silent, is sucked dry of all sound as Joshua Brody, Noah Walker’s lawyer, makes his pitch for his client’s release.
“There is no competent evidence tying the murder weapon to my client,” he says. “There was never a fingerprint on the weapon. And the only evidence that the knife was found at my client’s house would have come from Chief James—who obviously cannot testify now.”
“Your Honor!” Sebastian Akers jumps to his feet, his perfect-cool persona shaken for the first time. “We will call Detective Isaac Marks—I’m sorry, Acting Chief Isaac Marks—who will testify that the chief showed him the knife after he discovered it under the heating duct in the defendant’s kitchen.”
“But Mr. Marks didn’t see it under the heating duct. Only the chief did, allegedly,” says Noah’s lawyer. “The defense’s theory is that Chief James planted that knife. But now we can’t cross-examine him to establish that. The prosecution shouldn’t be allowed to suggest that the knife was found in my client’s house when we can’t cross-examine the person who supposedly ‘found’ it.”