A beat. “So go test him.”
“I tried. He won’t see me.”
I blinked at her. I was wrong-footed both by the news my father was alive and by the fact that she had already got a message from him. She had an advantage over me. Not only did she know my history, she did not consider it history at all. It was no burden to her. To Dr. Vogel, trying to contact Billy Barber was no harder than picking up the phone.
“He says you have to ask.”
“Me? He wouldn’t know me if I stood up in his soup.”
“Apparently he wants to change that.”
“He does? Why?”
“A father gets old, he wants to know his son a little.” She shrugged. “Who can understand the human heart?”
“So he knows about me?”
“Oh, he knows all about you.”
I felt myself flush like a little kid with the thrill of it: a father! Then, just as quickly, my mood plummeted, the thought of Bloody Billy Barber turned to acid.
“Tell him to fuck off.”
“I can’t tell him that. We need his help. We need a sample to argue that a genetic mutation is more than a one-off but a family trait passed down from father to son to son.”
“We could get a court order.”
“Not without giving away to the DA what we’re up to.”
I shook my head.
Laurie finally spoke. “Andy, you need to think about Jacob. How far would you go for him?”
“I’d go to hell and back.”
“Okay, then. So you will.”
19 | The Cutting Room
In the last week of August—that non-week, the week of Sundays when we all move a little slower and mourn the passing of summer and get ourselves ready for fall—the temperatures climbed and the air thickened until the heat was all anyone could talk about: when it would break, how high it would go, how unbearable the humidity was. It drove people indoors, as if it was winter. The sidewalks and shops were oddly quiet. To me the heat was not an affliction, it was merely a symptom, as a fever is a symptom of the flu. It was only the most obvious reason the world was fast becoming unbearable.
We were all a little heat-crazy by then, Laurie and Jacob and I. Looking back on it, it is hard to believe how self-absorbed I had become, how this whole story seemed to be about me, not Jacob, not our entire family. Jacob’s guilt and mine were entangled in my mind, though no one had ever accused me of anything explicitly. I was coming apart, of course. I knew this. I distinctly remember exhorting myself to hold it together, to keep up appearances, not to crack.
But I did not share my feelings with Laurie, and I did not try to draw out hers either, because we were all coming apart. I discouraged any sort of frank emotional talk, and soon enough I stopped noticing my wife altogether. I never asked—never even asked!—what the experience was like for the mother of Jacob the murderer. I thought it was more important to be—at least to seem—a tower of strength and to encourage her to be strong as well. It was the only sensible approach: tough it out, get through the trial, do whatever it takes to keep Jacob safe, then repair the emotional damage later. After. It was as if there was a place called After, and if I could just push my family across to that shore, then everything would be all right. There would be time for all these “soft” problems in the land of After. I was wrong. I think about that now, how I should have seen Laurie then, should have paid more attention. She had saved my life, once. I came to her damaged and she had loved me anyway. And when she was damaged, I did not lift a finger to help her. I only noticed that her hair was getting grayer and sloppier, and her face was becoming crazed with lines like an old ceramic vase. She had lost so much weight that her hip bones protruded, and when we were together she spoke less and less. In spite of it all, I never softened in my determination to save Jacob first and heal Laurie later. I try to rationalize that merciless intransigence now: I was by then a master of internalizing dangerous emotions; my mind was overheated with the stress of that endless summer. It is all true and it is all bullshit too. The truth is, I was a fool. Laurie, I was a fool. I know that now.
I went to the Yoos’ home around ten o’clock one morning. Derek’s parents both worked, even during this pseudo-vacation week. I knew Derek would be home alone. He and Jacob were still texting regularly. They even spoke on the phone, though only during the day, when Derek’s parents were not around to hear. I was convinced Derek would want to help his friend, he would want to talk to me, tell me the truth, but I was afraid he would not let me in anyway. He was a good kid. He would do as he had been told, as he always did, always had done. So I was prepared to talk my way into the house, even to force my way in to get to him. I remember feeling quite capable of that. I came to the house wearing baggy cargo shorts and a T-shirt that stuck to my sweaty back. I had gained some weight since this all began, and I recall that the shorts shimmied down my hips over and over, weighted down by my gut. I had to hike them up constantly. I had always been fit and trim. My sloppy new body made me ashamed, but I felt no inclination to fix it. Again, there would be time after.
Arriving at the Yoos’ home, I did not knock. I did not want to give the kid a chance to hide from me, to see me and refuse to answer the door, pretend he was not there. Instead I went around to the back, past the little flower garden, past a hydrangea shooting white conical bunches of flowers in every direction like fireworks, a blossoming that David Yoo waited all year for, I remembered.
The Yoos had built an extension off the back of their house. It contained a mudroom and a breakfast room. The walls were windowed all around. From the back deck I could see in through the kitchen to the little sitting area where Derek sprawled on a couch in front of the TV. There was patio furniture on this deck, an umbrellaed table and six chairs. If Derek had refused to let me in, I might have thrown one of those heavy patio chairs through the French door, like William Hurt in Body Heat. But the door was unlocked. I walked right into the house as if I owned it, as if I had just run out to the garage to take out the trash.
Inside, the house was cool, air-conditioned.
Derek scrambled to his feet but he did not come toward me. He stood with his skinny calves against the couch, in gym shorts and a black T-shirt with the Zildjian logo across the chest. His bare feet were long and bony. His toes pressed down into the carpet, arching like little caterpillars. Nerves. When I first met Derek, he was five years old and still pudgy. Now he was another scrawny, gangly, slightly spaced-out teenage kid like my own. He was just like Jacob in every way but one: there was no cloud on Derek’s future, nothing to obstruct him. He would move through adolescence with the same zonked-out expression as Jacob, same crap clothes, same shambling, no-eye-contact manner, and he would pass right on into adulthood. He was the blameless kid Jacob might have been, and I thought briefly how nice it would be to have such an uncomplicated kid. I envied David Yoo even as I considered him, at the moment, an asshole without peer.
“Hello, Derek.”
“Hi.”
“What’s wrong, Derek?”
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
“I’ve been here a hundred times.”
“Yeah, but you’re not supposed to be here now.”
“I just want to talk. About Jacob.”
“I’m not supposed to.”
“Derek, what’s wrong with you? You’re all … flustered.”
“No.”
“Are you afraid of me?”
“No.”
“Then why are you acting like this?”
“Like what? I’m not doing anything.”
“You look like you just shit a brick.”
“No. It’s just, you’re not supposed to be here.”
“Relax, Derek. Sit down. I just want to know the truth, that’s all. What on earth is going on here? What’s really going on? I just wish someone would tell me.”
I moved through the kitchen into the TV room cautiously, as if I were approaching a skittish animal.
�
��I don’t care what your parents said, Derek. Your parents are wrong. Jacob deserves your help. He’s your friend. Your friend. I am too. I’m your friend and this is what friends do, Derek. They help each other. That’s all I want, is for you to be Jacob’s friend, right now. He needs you.”
I sat down.
“What did you tell Logiudice? What could you possibly have told him that would make him believe my son is a murderer?”
“I didn’t say Jake is a murderer.”
“What did you tell him, then?”
“Why don’t you ask Logiudice? I thought he had to tell you?”
“He’s supposed to, Derek, but he’s playing games. He’s not a good guy, Derek. I know it might be hard for you to understand that. He didn’t put you in front of the grand jury because then he would have to provide me with a transcript. He probably did not have you talk to a detective either, because then the cop would have written a report. So I need you to tell me, Derek. I need you to do the right thing. Tell me what you said to Logiudice that made him so sure Jacob is guilty.”
“I told him the truth.”
“Oh, I know, Derek. Everyone tells the truth. It’s so tiresome. Because it’s never the same truth. So I need to know exactly what you said.”
“I’m not supposed to—”
“Dammit, Derek! What did you say!”
He recoiled then plunked down on the couch, as if the shout had blasted him backward.
I calmed myself. I said in a soft voice just short of despair, “Please, Derek. Please tell me.”
“I just told him, you know, some things that have been going on in school.”
“Like what?”
“Like Jake was getting picked on. Ben Rifkin was, like, the leader of this group of kids. Like slacker kids. They were kind of giving Jake a hard time.”
“About what?”
“Like saying he was gay, that was the main thing. Just, like, rumors. Ben just made stuff up. And, you know, I don’t even care if Jake is gay. I really don’t. I wish he’d just say it if he was.”
“Do you think he’s gay?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. But it doesn’t matter, because he didn’t do any of the things Ben said he did. Ben just made it up. He just liked tooling on Jake for some reason. Like it was a game for him or something. He was kind of a bully.”
“What did Ben say?”
“I don’t know. Just, like, starting rumors. Like he said Jake offered to blow a kid at this party—which he didn’t. Or that he got a boner in the shower after track one day. Or that one of the teachers went back into school during recess one day and caught Jake jerking off in one of the classrooms. It was all totally not true.”
“Why did he say it, then?”
“ ’Cause Ben was a dick. There was just something about Jake that Ben didn’t like, and that kind of got him excited, you know? It was like he couldn’t help himself. If he saw Jake, he gave him a rash of shit. Every time. I guess he figured he could get away with it too. He was just a dick. To be honest? Nobody likes to say it because he got killed and everything? But Ben was a mean kid. Whoever did this—well, I don’t know, I don’t want to say—whatever. Ben was just a mean kid.”
“But why was he mean to Jacob? I don’t get that.”
“He just didn’t like him. Jake is like—I mean, I know Jake, okay? And I like him. But come on. I mean, you have to know Jake isn’t, like, a normal kid?”
“Why not? Because kids thought he was gay?”
“No.”
“Then what does ‘normal’ mean?”
He gave me a searching look. “Jake has a mean streak of his own.” Derek held his eyes on me.
I tried not to betray any emotion. Tried to stop my Adam’s apple from bobbing down and up.
Derek said, “I think maybe Ben didn’t know that. Ben kind of picked the wrong little freak to pick on. He had no clue.”
“So that’s why you went on Facebook and told everyone about the knife?”
“No. It was more than that. I mean, it was like, the whole reason he got the knife was he was afraid of Ben. He thought Ben was going to go after him someday and try to mess him up, and then Jake was going to have to defend himself. You never knew about any of this?”
“No.”
“Jacob never told you about any of this?”
“No.”
“Well, I told because I knew Jake got the knife and I knew it was because he was afraid Ben was going to try something. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t know. I don’t know why I told.”
“You told because it was the truth. You wanted to tell the truth.”
“I guess.”
“But that knife wasn’t the murder weapon. The knife you saw, that Jacob had? It’s not the one that killed Ben. They found another knife in Cold Spring Park. You know that, right?”
“Yeah, but who knows? They found a knife.…” Shrug. “Anyway, it was like, at the time everybody was still talking about ‘Where’s the knife?’ And Jake always used to say, like, ‘My dad’s a DA and I know about the law,’ like he knew what he could get away with. Like, if anyone ever accused him? You know?”
“Did he ever say that?”
“No. Not exactly.”
“So is that what you told Logiudice?”
“No! ’Course not. ’Cause, like, this isn’t stuff I really know, you know? This is just, like, what I think.”
“So what exactly did you tell Logiudice?”
“Just that Jacob had a knife.”
“The wrong knife.”
“Well, if that’s what you want to say, whatever. I just told Logiudice about the knife and that Ben was kind of bullying him. And that the morning it happened, Jake came into school with blood on him.”
“Which Jacob admits. He found Ben. He tried to help him. That’s how he got the blood on him.”
“I know, I know, An—Mr. Barber. I’m not saying anything about Jake. I’m just telling you what I told the DA. Jake came into school and I saw blood on him, and he told me he had to clean it up because people wouldn’t understand. And he was right: they didn’t.”
“Derek, can I ask you something? Do you really think it’s possible? I mean, is there anything else you’re not telling me? Because what I’m hearing, it still doesn’t make sense that Jacob did this. It just doesn’t add up.”
Derek squirmed. His body corkscrewed away from me.
“You think he did it, don’t you, Derek?”
“No. I mean, there’s like a one percent chance, you know? Just, like, a little bit of”—he held up his fingers a millimeter apart—“I don’t know.”
“Doubt.”
“Yeah.”
“Why? Why would you have even a little bit of doubt? You’ve known Jacob most of your life. You’ve been best friends.”
“Because Jake—he’s just kind of a different kid. You know, I’m not saying anything, all right? But he’s just kind of—I said he had, like, a mean streak but that isn’t really it. I don’t know how to say it. It’s not like he has a temper or he gets mad or anything. He doesn’t get mad, you know? He just—he’s kind of mean. Not to me, ’cause I’m his friend. But to other kids sometimes? He just says weird things. Like racist stuff, just jokes. Or he calls fat girls fat or he says inappropriate stuff about them, like about their bodies. And he reads these stories on the Net? Kind of porn, but about torture. He calls it ‘cutter,’ like ‘cutter porn.’ He’ll say, like, ‘Dude, I was up so late reading cutter on the Net last night.’ He showed me some of the stories? Like, on his iPod? And I’m like, ‘Dude, this is sick.’ You know, it’s like stories about … you know, cutting people? Like tying women up and cutting them and killing them and stuff? And tying up men and cutting stuff off and”—he grimaced—“you know, castrating them? It’s totally sick. He still does it.”
“What do you mean he still does it?”
“He reads it.”
“That’s not true. I’ve been checking the computer. I put a program
on it that tells me what Jacob does and where he goes on the Internet.”
“He uses his iPod. That iPod Touch?”
For a moment I was the stupid, out-of-touch parent.
Derek said helpfully, “He finds them on these forums on the Net. This site called the Cutting Room. People trade stories, I guess. They write them and post them for other people to read.”
“Derek, kids look at porn. I know that. You’re sure that’s not just what we’re talking about?”
“I’m totally, totally sure. This is not porn. Anyway, it’s not even just that. I mean, he can read whatever he wants. It’s none of my business. But he just has this thing where he kind of doesn’t care.”
“Doesn’t care about what?”
“About people, about animals, about anything.” He shook his head.
I sat silent, waiting.
“One time we were out, a group of us, and we were just kind of sitting on this wall, like hanging out. It was the middle of the afternoon. And this guy goes by on the sidewalk and he has these, kind of like, crutches? Like, you know those kind that go up over your arm and there’s like a ring that goes over your arm? And he couldn’t really control his legs. He just sort of dragged them like he was paralyzed or he had some disease or something. And this guy goes by, and Jake just starts laughing. I mean, not like quiet laughing but really loud, like crazy laughing, like ‘HA HA HA.’ He wouldn’t stop. The guy must have heard him; he went right past us, right in front of us. And we’re all just kind of looking at Jacob like, ‘Dude, what’s wrong with you?’ And he’s like, ‘Are you guys all blind? Didn’t you even see that guy? He’s a total freak show!’ It was just … mean. I mean, I know you’re Jacob’s dad and all, and I don’t like to say this, but Jake can be just mean. I don’t like being around him when he’s like that. I get a little scared of him, to tell you the truth.”
Derek made a sad little grimace, as if he was making a difficult admission to himself for the first time. His friend Jake had let him down. He went on in a less disgusted, more mournful tone.
“Once—this was like last fall, I guess?—Jake found this dog. Just, like, a little mutt. He was lost, I guess, but he wasn’t a stray because he had a collar on. Jake had him on, like, a string? You know, instead of a leash?”
Defending Jacob Page 20