“The defense would like to call Andrew Petersen.”
“Andrew Petersen!”
Chase, T.J., and I are in the back row of the courtroom. Raymond said it’s ok for me to be here now that I’ve testified, as long as the prosecutor doesn’t object, which he hasn’t yet, and which is why I’m lying low. On the drive over here, I sat in the front with Chase, leaving nowhere for T.J. except the backseat. Since T.J. didn’t say more than two words to either one of us the whole drive, I figure he doesn’t like riding in the backseat by himself. But I don’t have the energy to make sure everybody’s happy. I have to focus on the trial.
The problem is, I don’t understand how trials work because I slept through most of eighth-grade civics and government classes. Leaning toward Chase, I whisper, “Who’s Petersen and why is Raymond making him testify?”
“Petersen testified for the prosecution and claimed he saw Jeremy twice that morning-once galloping through the fields on that spotted horse.”
“Sugar.”
“Right,” T.J. throws in. “I was here for that part of the prosecution’s case too.”
I watch Petersen stroll across the courtroom. He’s tall, balding, and maybe fifty or sixty years old, wearing glasses and a black suit with a red tie. “So why would Raymond want him testifying again?”
T.J. and Chase exchange weird looks. Then Chase whispers, “Petersen claims he saw Jeremy carrying a bat and running away from the barn.”
I look over at Jeremy. He’s sitting up straight, his gaze on the judge.
I make myself listen to every word of the testimony as Raymond leads Mr. Petersen through the events of his morning, including what he ate for breakfast-instant oatmeal, wheat toast with fake butter, OJ, and coffee. He tells us where he found his morning paper-in the bushes-how loud the neighbors’ dogs are, and when he saw Jeremy. He’s a horrible storyteller, wasting time trying to recall details nobody on earth could care about.
“I’ve called that newspaper office to complain,” he drones, “seven times. Or was it eight? I remember the sixth time clearly because it was after the Fourth of July and those kids down the street were still shooting off their firecrackers. Then I found my newspaper on the roof, saw it right up there when-”
Finally, Raymond retakes control and interrupts the winding, windy trail of Mr. Petersen’s thoughts. “Mr. Petersen, how do you know Jeremy Long, the defendant?”
“Everybody knows the Batter,” he answers. That’s the horrible name the Cleveland Plain Dealer gave to Coach Johnson’s murderer. CNN picked it up.
Raymond moves closer to the jury. “I meant before everybody became familiar with the defendant. When did you first come to know Jeremy?”
Petersen’s face wrinkles, and he looks like he’s pouting or about to cry. “I don’t understand.”
“Let me clarify,” Raymond says, smiling. But I’m thinking Raymond may be a better lawyer than he looks. “When did you and the defendant first meet?”
Petersen frowns. “I… I never met him.”
“No?” Raymond looks surprised. “But you’d seen him around? You knew what he looked like? Before the murder?”
“No,” Mr. Petersen admits.
Raymond looks puzzled and turns to the jury for his next question. “Then how did you know that the boy you saw running with a bat was Jeremy Long?”
“I didn’t. Not at first, leastwise.”
“So what you saw was a boy running with a bat and a boy riding a horse?” Raymond keeps going, leading Petersen on a trail that ends up with the man admitting he didn’t know who Jeremy was until the newspapers told him. And he hadn’t been wearing his glasses.
When Petersen is so confused he’d have trouble identifying himself, Raymond moves in for the kill. “So, you didn’t really know who the boy was running. And you didn’t report this alarming incident because, although you believed the bat was bloody after the papers reported it, at the time you assumed it was a muddy bat. Have I got that right?”
“Yeah. I guess,” Mr. Petersen admits.
Raymond smiles up at the judge. “Then, Your Honor, I have no more questions for this witness.”
Mr. Petersen hurries out of the witness box and out of the courtroom. The whole question-and-answer routine took a lot longer than things take on TV court shows. Twice it looked like Juror Number Seven fell asleep.
But not Jeremy. I could tell my brother was tuned in, listening to the testimony, absorbing it. If Jeremy is focused on something, he’s smart, really smart. It’s just when he loses interest that he drifts into his own, much more fascinating world.
The judge announces a short recess, and when we get back, Raymond calls Bob Adams to the stand. Bob is a few rows up from us, but he glances back as he steps over people to get out of his row. I smile at him, relaxing a little because I know Bob likes Jeremy. That’s why Raymond wanted him to testify about Jeremy’s character. When we first moved to Grain, Bob hired Rita on the spot. When I began standing in for Rita, mostly because she wanted to sleep in or just didn’t feel like working, Bob wasn’t crazy about the idea. But when he saw how hard I worked-a lot harder than Rita-he came around. He came around with Jeremy too.
Bob swears on the Bible to tell the truth, then makes his way to the witness box, where he balances himself on the edge of the wooden seat, like he may need to get away quick. I might not have recognized Bob outside of the restaurant if I’d seen him dressed like this-gray suit, blue tie, leather shoes, and no apron. I try to remember if I’ve ever seen Bob outside of the Colonial Cafe, and I don’t think I have. He clears his throat. His hair is slicked back, and he looks as nervous and out of place as a cat in a courtroom full of rocking chairs.
Raymond has Bob identify himself, and then he starts asking Bob about Jeremy.
“I’ve always thought Jeremy was a great kid,” Bob answers. “A little different maybe, squirrelly, you know, what with not talking and all. But nice. Real nice.”
Bob gives examples of nice, like when Jeremy would come by the Colonial and jump right in to help wash dishes for no reason and no money. Or the time Jeremy picked black-eyed Susans and put a glass full of flowers on every table in the Colonial.
I’m thinking Bob’s done a good job talking about my brother. Jeremy comes off as different, just in case we still need the insane version of the plea, but nice and regular too.
Raymond announces that he’s finished with the witness, and Bob starts to get up to leave.
“I have a few questions for the witness,” Prosecutor Keller says from behind his table. He stands and buttons the middle button of his light gray suit.
The judge nods, and Bob sits back down.
Keller is all smiles, which makes me nervous. “Mr. Adams, wasn’t there a time when Jeremy caused some disturbance in your restaurant?”
“That… that was nothing,” Bob answers, but he shifts his sizable weight in the witness seat and loosens his tie. I know what’s coming, and I’m sure Bob does too.
I glance at Jeremy, and he’s staring at Bob like he’d trade places with him if he could, just so Bob wouldn’t have to be on that witness stand any longer.
“You say it was nothing? Really?” Keller turns his wrinkled-up, surprised look on the jury. I’ve come to hate that look. “Didn’t someone call the police? Didn’t Sheriff Wells have to restore order?”
I glare at the sheriff. I know he had to be the one who told Keller about this.
“It all got blown out of proportion,” Bob answers.
It really did. It shouldn’t have been such a big deal, and it wasn’t Jeremy’s fault anyway. He lost his temper, but only because some jerk at school told him that Rita served horse and dog meat at the cafe. Jer loves animals, so he got upset.
“Mr. Adams,” Keller insists, “I remind you that you’re under oath. Please tell the court what transpired about a year ago on August second, when Sheriff Wells was called to your establishment.”
Bob glances over at Jeremy, then back to Keller. “Well, Jeremy came storming into the restaurant at lunchtime. It was a Saturday, and we were busy. He ran from one table to the next, over to the booths, and down the short-order counter, peering at every plate.”
“Go ahead, please,” Keller urges.
“If a customer had a hamburger, say, well, Jeremy grabbed the plate and tossed the whole thing into the garbage. It all happened so fast. I guess some kids in one of the booths tried to hang on to their plates, and Jeremy got a little carried away. But it was them kids at his school that done it. They messed with Jeremy’s head, telling him his mother was serving horsemeat and dogs.”
A ripple of restrained laughter flicks across the courtroom. I can’t believe anybody thinks this is funny.
“Mr. Adams, tell us about the plates,” Keller urges.
Bob stares at his pudgy hands. “He broke most of them,” he mutters.
“Speak up, please,” Keller says, “so the jury can hear you.”
“He broke them!” Bob shouts, staring Keller straight in the eyes. “Jeremy broke them plates and a dozen others, okay? But that busybody Mrs. Rouse had no call to phone the sheriff. We didn’t need the police. We could have handled it.”
“It’s a shame you couldn’t have been in the barn to handle things the day of the murder,” Keller says.
Raymond stands up and pounds the table. “Your Honor! I object!”
But the judge is already on it. “Mr. Keller, save your comments for your closing. I’m watching you.”
“Sorry, Your Honor,” he says, clearly not one bit sorry. He turns to Bob and smiles. “Mr. Adams, Bob, you like Jeremy Long, the defendant, do you not?”
Bob looks at Jeremy again. “I like Jeremy fine,” he says, still obviously upset at Keller.
“Would it be fair to say that you like Jeremy’s mother too?” Keller presses.
My stomach twists. I’m not sure why, but I know something bad is coming.
“What are you saying?” Bob demands.
“Just that I believe you like Jeremy and his mother.”
Raymond stands up, but only halfway, like he’s not quite sure of this one. “Your Honor, I object to this line of questioning.”
“Goes to motive for testifying, Your Honor,” Keller explains.
“Overruled. Answer the question, Mr. Adams.”
“Fine. I like Rita and Jeremy. So what?”
“Could we say that, at least in the case of the defendant’s mother, Rita Long, you more than like her?” He sounds like a second grader teasing a kid with a crush.
“Your Honor!” Raymond complains, starting to stand again.
The judge raises her hand to stop him. “Move along, Mr. Keller.”
This is what I’m thinking-move along.
“Isn’t it true that you and Mrs. Long are lovers? That you-”
“I object!” Raymond screams. I have never seen him this angry.
I object too. But I have to admit that I’m not surprised. I knew Rita was seeing somebody. I should have guessed it was Bob, if I guessed about it at all. I knew Bob liked her. I’ve just never seen the “like” coming back from Rita’s side.
“Mr. Keller, that’s enough.” This is as firm as I’ve heard the judge, and it makes me like her even more.
“All right,” Keller says. “Just one more question, Mr. Adams, and then I can let you go. Where were you the night before Coach Johnson was murdered?”
“Home.” Bob stares at his hands again, and I get a sick feeling about where this is going. Rita and I are the only alibi Jeremy has, and I was asleep until the sheriff woke me up pounding on the door.
“You were ‘home alone,’ as they say?” Keller asks.
I want to smack that grin off his face.
“No,” Bob answers, barely above a whisper.
Keller acts amazed. “Really? Who was with-?”
Bob doesn’t wait for the question. “Rita! Okay? Rita Long was with me.”
“Ah,” Keller says, as if everything is finally all cleared up. “I see. Um… excuse me for asking, but all night?”
“Yes. I went into work at six-fifteen, like I do every morning.”
“And Jeremy’s mother was still there?”
Bob nods.
“For the record, Mr. Adams, will you please answer the question aloud?” the judge asks.
“Sorry, Your Honor. Yes. Rita was there when I left at six-fifteen.”
The spectators break into murmurs, and the judge bangs her gavel and asks for order.
I don’t know what to think or how to feel. I try to figure out how bad this is for Jeremy, but I can’t. So Rita slept with Bob? So she wasn’t home to make sure Jeremy was in his bedroom all night. That one would have been pretty hard to prove anyway-what with the bloody bat and Jeremy’s bloody uniform. And it’s not like Rita would have checked in on Jer even if she had been home all night.
Chase looks over at me, like he wants to see how I’m taking it.
There’s a tap-clapping noise at the front of the courtroom. I can’t see where it’s coming from, but I have a good idea. A chair squeaks and somebody slaps a table. Every other noise stops. The slap sounds again and again.
“Mr. Munroe, can you please control your client?” asks the judge.
I lean to the left until I can see between two reporters’ heads and get a view of my brother. Jeremy is swaying back and forth. His hands fly above his head like frightened birds.
“Mr. Long,” says the judge, “you must settle down, or I’ll need to have you removed from court. Do you understand?”
Jeremy’s hands twist in the air, clenching and unclenching as he moves faster and faster. Raymond puts a hand on his shoulder, and Jeremy shakes it off like Raymond’s hand is made of fire.
From where I sit, in the back, my brother’s face is split in shadows. He is Jekyll and Hyde, light and darkness.
I don’t want the jury to see him like this.
I don’t want Chase and T.J. to see him like this.
I don’t want me to see him like this. And in that fraction of a second, I wonder. Did he do it?