Noah’s eyes are fixed on the floor now. “That happened, yes.”
“Yes, that ‘happened.’ That ‘happened’ because you shot him with a BB gun, correct?”
Noah doesn’t speak. Still staring at the floor.
“Is that a yes, Mr. Walker?”
“I didn’t shoot him,” Noah says, almost in a whisper, though the microphone gives it sufficient volume.
“No? You didn’t shoot that boy? You were wrongfully accused then, too, is that it?”
“I didn’t shoot him.”
“I see. So when school officials said you did, they weren’t telling the truth, either, were they?”
Noah’s shoulders close in on him, like he’s trying to shelter himself from a storm. “I don’t want to talk about that anymore,” he says.
“Oh.” Akers lets out a chuckle. “Well, what do you wanna talk about? The Yankees’ chances in the postseason?”
That gets a roar from the spectators. I thought it was clever, too, but I’m watching Noah. His face is turning red. He’s practically curled up into a ball. Akers, if he’s half the trial lawyer he thinks he is, senses it, too.
By the time the laughter has subsided and the judge has gaveled the room to order, Akers has slowly approached Walker, a tiger stalking prey.
“You shot fifteen people that day, Mr. Walker.”
“I—no—I’m not going to—I don’t want—”
“But you claim the school officials lied.”
“I said I don’t—”
“Just like you claim a decorated police chief, Langdon James, lied.”
Noah shakes his head.
“Just like Detective Murphy lied.”
It’s clear now Noah’s not going to answer, and that seems to be fine with Akers. He’s watching—we’re all watching—a defendant smoldering on the witness stand, and Akers is hoping he’ll erupt.
“Just like Dio Cornwall lied. Just like Remy Handleman lied.”
Noah turns his head away, as if he’s done with this examination.
“All of them lied,” says Akers. “It’s a grand conspiracy, isn’t it, Mr. Walker? The whole world against you.”
Noah says something, but he’s turned away from the mike and it’s inaudible.
“Mr. Walker—”
“Yes!” Noah hisses, spinning around, nearly knocking over the microphone. Akers jumps back. The judge reacts, too. Several of the jurors recoil, seeing a new side of Noah Walker.
“Everyone’s lying! The chief, that detective, the prison snitch, Remy, who couldn’t tie his own shoes without help—they’re all lying! They set me up!”
Noah surges to his feet, sweeping his hand, this time knocking the microphone to the floor. “They all set me up! They framed me! They’re all liars!”
“Sit down, Mr. Walker, or I’ll have you restrained!” the judge commands. “Deputies?” he calls out, and quickly two sheriff’s deputies approach Noah.
When Noah doesn’t immediately take his seat, one of the deputies grabs his arm. He yanks it free. Both bailiffs reach for their batons, but Noah drops himself back into his chair. The judge calls for order and admonishes Noah. His face has lost all hope now; it’s distorted with bitterness.
But when he looks up, his expression breaks, the scowl changing to despair, and for the briefest of moments, I think he’s looking at me. Then I realize he’s looking past me. I glance over my shoulder and see the woman he was with when I arrested him—Paige, I think her name was. She’s mouthing something to him from across the courtroom, but I can’t make out what she’s saying.
I look back at Noah, who shakes his head and breaks eye contact.
“Your Honor, I have no further questions,” says Sebastian Akers.
29
THE FIRST DAY, Noah didn’t think much of it. It had been a long trial. There was a lot of information to review. It could just be the simple matter of plowing through all the material, wanting to be thorough.
The second day, he began to wonder. He had no experience with this kind of thing, so he tried not to think too much about it.
The third day of jury deliberations, he began to have hope. Somebody on that jury was doing some heavy thinking about his guilt. Don’t read too much into it, his lawyer advised him during a visit. A lot of people have lost a lot of bets trying to guess what a jury is thinking.