The Other Side of Dark

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  “Then what happens?”

  “Among other things, the judge sets the amount of bail for Tucker or decides if he should be allowed out on bail.”

  I hear Donna gasp. “You mean he might be set free until his trial?”

  “That’s a possibility,” Markowitz says. “In court we’ll present a strong plea that he not be allowed bail, and for now, we can hold him for twenty-four hours without a formal charge.”

  Donna says, “But even if he’s released on bail, surely he won’t try to hurt Stacy. He’d have to be insane.”

  For a moment there’s nothing but silence. I know we’re all thinking the same thing: Who says that he’s not?

  “Will you let me know what happens to Jarrod?” I ask Markowitz.

  “You’ll know. You’re our witness.”

  As he talks he moves toward the door. Donna and I follow him out of the room and down the hallway.

  Without warning an intense light nearly blinds me, and someone says, “There she is!”

  “Don’t worry,” Markowitz tells us. “It’s just a TV crew. They seem to be the only ones who wanted to follow up on the story. The others on the police beat are covering a convenience store shooting on the north side.”

  Donna is nervous. “What do they want? Can’t we get them to go away?”

  “I’ll chase them off if you say so,” he answers, “but Stacy might agree to talk to them for a few minutes. They’ll just ask her a couple of questions. They’ve got word by now on the result of the lineup, and it won’t take long. If they ask anything they shouldn’t, I’ll step in.”

  “Sure,” I say. “It’s okay.”

  A woman with short dark hair is working her way toward me. She’s holding up a microphone. The bright light snaps off, so I can see the cameraman with the light and the camera on his shoulder. He’s right behind her.

  I take a step toward the reporter, ducking around a guy who is being steered through the hallway by a police officer. The guy’s face is all scrunched up, as though he were trying not to cry. I don’t think he’s any older than I am.

  Suddenly there’s space, and just as suddenly I find myself face-to-face with Jarrod Tucker. He’s wedged between two sturdy officers, his hands cuffed in front of him.

  His eyes turn to narrow slits as he recognizes me.

  Detective Markowitz snaps, “Get him out of here!”

  Donna tugs at me, the reporter shouts at the cameraman, and I throw up my hands against his instant blast of bright light. Jarrod is jerked past me, the officers with him ordering people to get out of the way, but he manages to twist toward me. Through all the confusion I hear only a snarl of words: “My friend!”

  Just as quickly I cry at him, “You’re crazy!”

  For just an instant, before he’s pulled away from me, Jarrod’s lips part in a wide grin, and his eyes gleam.

  “Donna!” I shriek, but Donna seems to be trying to head off the reporter. Frantically I look for Markowitz, but he has followed Jarrod and the officers down the hall. Nobody’s reacting to what Jarrod said to me. Didn’t they hear him? Am I the only one?

  What did Jarrod mean? That’s the second time he’s mumbled something about a friend. If Jarrod can’t get to me, will one of his friends try?

  Markowitz appears at my side. He takes my arm and leads me into a nearby room. “You’re shaking,” he says. “Sit down.” He nudges me toward an ugly chrome and plastic chair.

  “I want Donna.”

  “I’ll get her.”

  I’m alone and more frightened than ever. When Markowitz appears with Donna, I jump up and run to her. I hug her as closely as I can, hanging on as though she were an anchor that would keep me from being swept downstream.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Donna says as she strokes my hair. “Stacy, honey, he’s locked up. He can’t hurt you.”

  “He said something about a friend. I think he was threatening me. I think he meant his friends would take care of me!”

  “He spoke to you?” Markowitz scowls. “I didn’t hear him.”

  “When they took him past me. That’s all he said. Just the words my friend.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive! Don’t you believe me?”

  Donna speaks first. “There was a lot of noise, a lot of confusion, and you were afraid. Maybe you just thought—”

  “The words my friend—if that’s what you heard—could mean anything, Stacy.”

  I interrupt them. “I didn’t imagine it. I heard Jarrod. I think I know what it means.”

  Donna wraps her arms around me and says to Markowitz, “There was so much noise, and we were all distracted. It makes sense that Stacy heard him and we couldn’t.”

  “Okay, okay,” Markowitz says. He leans against the desk. “I’ve seen guys like Jarrod Tucker over and over again. They’re all brave talk on the outside, cowards on the inside. Threats? Sure, he’d try to scare Stacy out of testifying against him.”

  “Maybe she shouldn’t testify.” Donna’s chin wobbles, and I know she’s close to tears.

  I push away from Donna, take a deep breath, and say, “Look, I’m scared. He scared me a lot. But I am going to testify against him. Nothing Jarrod can do will scare me out of that!”

  Markowitz nods. “We won’t let him get to you, Stacy.”

  “It isn’t fair,” Donna says, and she suddenly sits on the hard, ugly chair. There are brown smudges under her eyes, and her face looks thin and pale.

  “Donna! Are you all right?”

  “I’m just tired,” she says. “I’m tired of all this. We were a happy family leading normal, average lives. What went wrong? Why should all this happen to us?”

  “I’m sorry,” Markowitz mumbles, and his eyes do look sorry.

  It’s not an answer, but for the moment it seems to satisfy Donna. “May I please have a glass of water?” she asks. She sits up a little straighter and rests her hands on her abdomen. Her fingers make a little patting motion, as though she were reassuring the baby.

  “Right away,” Markowitz says, moving toward the door. But he pauses. “And when you’re ready to leave, we’ll get you out the back door and away from here. No problem.”

  “Thank you,” Donna says.

  But my mind is on Jarrod and the words he whispered at me. He meant to frighten me, and he succeeded. What did he mean? I know what I’m up against with Jarrod. But who is his friend?

  Chapter Twelve

  On the way back to our house I tell Donna my idea. “I’m going to find out who Jarrod’s friends are. As soon as we get home I’m going to call Tony. Jarrod goes to Tony’s parties. I bet he’ll know.”

  “It might help,” Donna says. Her smile can’t cut the worry in her eyes.

  But I don’t have a chance to call Tony. As Donna parks the car in front of the house, a gray sedan pulls up behind us. Jeff jumps out, lopes over, and opens Donna’s door for her.

  He walks with us into the house, asking, “Did everything go all right?”

  “Yes.” For some reason I don’t want to talk to him about it.

  “Want some iced tea?” I ask him. We follow Donna into the kitchen.

  She pulls a large covered pitcher of iced tea out of the refrigerator and hands it to me. Then she pries the lid off a casserole dish and asks, “Why didn’t you eat the chicken pasta salad?”

  “Because I don’t know what it is.”

  She looks at me oddly. “Oh, Stacy,” she says, “I guess none of us did until a couple of years ago.”

  There’s a knock at the back door, and I hear a young voice calling, “Stacy!”

  Donna opens the door, and the three Cooper kids tumble inside, each one trying to beat the others in coming out with what they want to say.

  “Slow down,” I tell them. “Let Teri go first.”

  Teri quickly shouts, as though the rules might be changed at any minute, “Can we play in your tree house?”

  “Oh, no!” Donna says before I can answer. “It’s fallin
g apart, girls. It’s really dangerous. Dad is going to take it down because it’s a hazard.”

  “I’m glad you asked,” I tell them. “You were smart to ask.”

  “We asked you because when we asked our mother, she said we couldn’t,” Meri answers.

  Keri speaks up. “Can you come over and play, Stacy? We can play dolls again.”

  I gulp with embarrassment, frantically trying to think of the right thing to say, but Jeff smiles at them and answers for me.

  “Not until she baby-sits you again. She’ll see you later.”

  They’re out the door like a pack of puppies. I hear them shout their way to their own backyard.

  Jeff puts the tips of his fingers against my cheeks. They’re cool against my hot skin. “When I was a kid, one of our baby-sitters used to play cars with me by the hour,” he says. “I thought she was neat.”

  “Thanks,” I murmur.

  “Why don’t you stay for dinner, Jeff?” Donna asks. “Dennis will be here soon, and Dad gets home early on Saturday.”

  “I’d like that,” Jeff says. “Mind if I use your phone?”

  Donna waves toward the kitchen telephone. Jeff dials and says, “Hi. I’ll be here for a while. Okay. Sure.” He hangs up.

  “In a way I hope the baby is a girl,” Donna says. “Girls talk to their mothers.”

  Jeff laughs. “I’ll set the table,” he says.

  In a moment he and Donna are laughing together, but the telephone call makes me remember. I can’t call Tony and ask about Jarrod’s friends while Jeff is here. Would Jeff know that much about Jarrod? I can’t explain it. I don’t want to ask him.

  Dad’s home on Sunday, and Jan comes over. For some reason Jeff doesn’t show up and doesn’t call. The maid at Tony’s house says the family is at their beach house for the weekend. She’ll tell Tony to call me when he gets back, but they might not return until late Sunday night. I keep thinking of Jarrod and wondering why Markowitz doesn’t let me know if Jarrod is still in jail or is out on bail. Finally he telephones to say they have a temporary order that will keep Jarrod in jail without bond. A hearing has been set for Tuesday afternoon. There’s a lot of talk about the case on the evening news, but all the discussion about possible evidence seems to be rumor. I try all the channels, and no one has any real facts.

  Monday morning comes, and Markowitz calls again.

  “Regina Latham, one of the assistant district attorneys, is going to work on the Tucker case. She wants to talk to you.”

  “When?”

  “This morning.”

  “I’ll have to call Donna to see if she can take me downtown.”

  “No need to bother your sister. Just let her know where you’ll be. I’ll send a car for you. Can you be ready in about twenty minutes?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Okay. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Wait! Don’t hang up!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I—I don’t know what’s going to happen. What will she do?”

  “Don’t worry about that. Mrs. Latham will just go over your story with you, probably ask you a few questions. No big deal.”

  “Will Jarrod be there?”

  “No. Jarrod’s locked up tight. Don’t worry about him.”

  I let out the breath I must have been holding. “I’ll be ready when your car comes.”

  True to my word, I’m watching at the window when the car arrives. It’s a plain dark brown sedan. I guess I expected a blue-and-white police cruiser. The driver shows me his credentials, and I follow him to the car. It’s probably better this way. Another police car might have worried Mrs. Cooper.

  But Mrs. Cooper comes out onto her front porch. She calls across to me, “Stacy, is everything all right?”

  “Fine,” I call back. She looks at the police driver with such suspicion that I add, “I’m being taken to an appointment with one of the district attorneys who’s going to talk to me about Jarrod’s case.”

  “Oh,” she says, nodding as though there were a spring in her neck. “Well, just call me if you want anything.”

  “Thanks.” I don’t want anyone, especially Mrs. Cooper, to keep an eye on me.

  The driver opens the car door for me. I climb in and look back as we pull away from the curb. She stands there, watching, until the car is out of sight.

  The driver talks about the weather and a lot of dumb stuff like that. Maybe it’s a way of killing time. Maybe he’s trying to be friendly. Kids don’t waste time talking about things that don’t mean anything, but adults do it all the time. I suppose that’s one more thing I’ll have to learn how to do.

  We go through the eastern part of downtown Houston, and again I gawk at more new buildings that seem to have popped up as fast as the red tulips Mom used to plant in the front garden each year.

  Markowitz meets the car and walks with me into a building where corridors echo with footsteps and voices. An elderly shoeshine man sits just inside the front entrance. “That’s the girl,” I hear him tell someone as we pass his stand, and I walk a little faster.

  As we finally step off the crowded elevator Markowitz says to me, “I’m sorry you have to go through all this, Stacy. It’s just part of the game.”

  “It’s not a game!”

  He nods. “Sorry again. Wrong word. It’s tough for you and for the rest of your family. I know you’d all rather forget it.”

  His words slap me into awareness. Of course. This whole thing has been horrible for Dad and for Donna. And now they’ll have to relive it all again. Blast you, Jarrod! It’s not fair!

  Markowitz opens a couple of doors, and we’re in a small office. Most of the desk and the top of a bookcase are covered with piles and stacks of papers. Behind a clearing in the center of the desk sits a young woman, large glasses rimmed in a tortoiseshell brown that matches her short hair. She’s cool and dignified. She stands and, as Markowitz makes the introductions, appraises me.

  “The description the press gave her wasn’t far off, was it?” she says, and for some reason sounds almost hostile. “Would either of you like coffee? A Coke?” she adds.

  Markowitz accepts the coffee, but I don’t want anything. I’m too shaky to hold something that might end up in my lap.

  “Sit down please, Stacy,” Mrs. Latham says, pointing to one of the two chairs in front of the desk. “Just relax.” As Markowitz and I sit down she continues. “Now, Stacy, you claim that four years ago you saw someone run out of the back door of your house.”

  I have to interrupt. “I did see someone. And that was Jarrod Tucker.”

  “Stacy,” she says firmly, raising her voice a little like a kindergarten teacher whose students won’t quiet down and get into line, “when this case goes to court—if it does—”

  “What do you mean, if?”

  Markowitz leans over and puts a big hand on my arm. “Take it easy, Stacy. Mrs. Latham is an attorney. She has to make sure that nothing she says can be misconstrued. Right now she’s trying to make sure she’s got a good case. That’s all she means.”

  “Thank you, Detective Markowitz,” she says. “I’m sure that Stacy is old enough to understand the situation.”

  “I’ll try,” I answer.

  She taps the end of a pencil against the desk and begins again. “All right. Suppose you tell me in your own words what you claim to have seen on the day that your mother was allegedly murdered and you were shot.”

  “Allegedly shot,” I mutter under my breath. Markowitz coughs loudly, and I wait until he settles back in his chair. Then I go through the whole story.

  Mrs. Latham interrupts me over and over, snapping questions as fast as Jan used to be able to pop bubble gum. “What exactly did you think you heard? What kind of sound? Do you recognize the sound of a gunshot? Have you ever heard one before? Are you sure you heard anything? Did you know Jarrod Tucker? Had you ever spoken to him? If you hadn’t spoken to him, if you hadn’t been in his classes at school, how is it you could have be
en so sure it was Jarrod Tucker on your back porch? It’s been four years since that time. For that matter could your, uh, illness, let’s say, the time you ‘slept,’ have affected your judgment or your memory? Maybe both?”

  I stand up, slam my hands on the desk, scattering some of her papers to the floor, and explode into tears. “You have to believe me! You’re the one who’s supposed to make sure Jarrod goes to prison for murder!”

  She looks a little frightened by my outburst. “You can’t behave like that in court,” she stammers.

  But Markowitz gently pushes me back into the chair. “She’s just a kid,” he tells Mrs. Latham.

  “She’s not many years younger than I am!” Mrs. Latham bristles.

  “Don’t forget the four years she has to make up for,” he answers. He fishes a neatly folded handkerchief out of his pocket and hands it to me. “Stacy, understand that Mrs. Latham is just playing devil’s advocate,” he says.

  “What’s that?”

  Mrs. Latham looks up at the ceiling as though appealing for help, then back down to me. “It means,” she says, “that Jarrod Tucker’s defense attorney is going to ask you a great many questions. We’re trying to anticipate some of them. We want all the answers before we go to court.”

  I blow my nose and lean toward her, looking her straight in the eyes. “Okay. I want to help in any way I can. But there’s a better way to do this. Don’t push at me. Don’t snap questions at me the way you’ve been doing it. I came here to work with you, and you’re acting like an enemy.”

  The telephone rings, and she reaches for it so quickly she jostles some papers off her desk. She wasn’t the one being rescued. She hands the receiver to Markowitz and says, “It’s for you.”

  His conversation consists of “Good.… Clear? … Any reaction? … I’ll check. Thanks.” He hands the receiver to Mrs. Latham and nods as though he were in hearty agreement with whoever was on the line. “They did have some clear prints they couldn’t make at the time. They check out now. Jarrod Tucker.”

  “Then you’ve got physical evidence!” I realize that I’m shouting and jumping up and down in my chair, so I try to calm down. “That means he’ll be convicted, right?”