Because I doubted the guilt of Noah Walker. Because I thought the murder of the prostitute might be connected to the Ocean Drive murders. But I can’t say that. It would be a gift-wrapped present to the defense. And it’s not what Lang said in the report he wrote up. That would be the last thing he’d write down.
“Insubordination,” I say. “I let our personal relationship intrude on our professional relationship. I was disrespectful and I was wrong.”
“You were disrespectful to him?”
“I was,” I answer, feeling a lump in my throat, recalling the moment.
“You and your uncle, you were upset with each other?”
I feel the first hints of emotion creeping in. I’m not going to break down in front of this jury.
“He was certainly upset with me,” I say. “And he was right to be.”
“You feel … I can see that you feel guilty about that.”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to.
“Looking back, it bothers you, doesn’t it? That just before his death, you were disrespectful to your uncle.”
I know what my answer should be. It should be Yes, but that doesn’t mean I would lie for him. But that is precisely what I’m doing here today.
“It bothers me,” I answer.
“You wish you could make it up to him.”
Again, I don’t answer. He doesn’t wait very long.
“You think my client killed your uncle, correct?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“But you’d agree with me that, with the full resources of the STPD on the case for almost a week, there’s been no proof thus far to back up your suspicion.”
“Not yet.”
“So this case here,” he says, pointing to the floor, “this case might be your only chance to get Noah Walker.”
“Objection,” says Akers, but the judge overrules him.
“And with the chief unable to testify about this supposed confession from my client, and with the judge on the verge of dismissing the charges against my client, you now suddenly come forth to claim that the chief told you about this confession immediately”—he snaps his finger—“immediately after it happened.”
I don’t reply. My eyes move along the floor, then upward to the defense attorney.
“What a convenient and unexpected coincidence!” Brody says, waving his hands.
I look at Noah Walker, his chin resting on his fists. He watches me intently, his eyebrows pitched, as if—as if he pities me.
“No further questions,” says Brody.
26
NOAH WALKER PLACES his head gently against the bars of his holding cell, barely touching Paige Sulzman’s head on the other side. His hands come through the bars and interlock with hers.
“I don’t like you coming here,” he says. “I don’t like you seeing me like this.”
“I know, baby. Good thing I’m stubborn.”
“It’s not a good idea. How would John—”
“John’s in Europe. Copenhagen, this week, I think. I told you. He’ll be gone for another two weeks.”
Despite his protests, Noah looks forward to the fifteen-minute visits Paige is allowed every night in lockup. Riverhead is a dank, dark, miserable cesspool, purgatory for the accused in Suffolk County, short on hope and long on desperation and bitterness. Paige, with her freshly cut hair and generous smile, her sympathetic eyes and gentle demeanor, is like a rose sprouting in a swamp of manure.
“You could use a shave and a haircut,” she says, trying to keep it light.
He acknowledges the attempt at humor, but it’s hard to find anything funny right now. The trial is at its apex. Difficult decisions need to be made.
“Your lawyer did a good job today.” The hope in Paige’s expression, the tears shimmering in her eyes, reveal her lack of objectivity, but Noah doesn’t totally disagree.
“Yeah, he did. But still, babe. The jury heard a cop say I confessed to the murders. What’s the jury supposed to think when they hear I confessed?”
“That she made it up,” Paige replies. “That she’s trying to make it up to her uncle out of guilt. I thought that came through very clearly.”
“Yeah, I know.” He doesn’t sound like he’s convinced, because he’s not. Yes, his lawyer did a good job cross-examining Detective Murphy, but the jurors seemed to like her regardless, and their opinions are the only ones that matter.
“She just lied,” Paige says, spitting out the words. “She just lied.”
Noah purses his lips. “She thinks I’m guilty. I could see it that night, when she broke into my house. She thinks I killed her uncle, and she thinks I killed Zach and Melanie, too. She thinks she’s doing the right thing.”
Paige draws back. “You’re defending her? You must be joking.”
Noah almost laughs at the paradox, the fact that he’s sticking up for the cop who lied on the witness stand to put him away. “I just … understand why she did it.”
He wants to be upset with Murphy. She’s surely no friend of his. But there’s something in the way she handles herself, like she’s trying to prove something to somebody but isn’t sure what she’s proving, or to whom. He feels like he understands her. And regardless of what she did to him today, he can’t shake the feeling that …
… that they understand each other. That she doesn’t really believe, deep in her heart, that he’s guilty.