the Woods (2007)

by Harlan Coben

  Lucy was the past. I had given myself an ultimatum and shut her out. But the heart doesn't really know from ultimatums. Over the years, I have tried to see what Lucy is up to, harmlessly Googling her name and stuff, though I doubt I would ever have the courage to contact her. I never found anything. My bet is, after all that happened, she'd wisely changed her name. Lucy was probably married now, like I had been. She was probably happy. I hoped so.

  I pushed that all away. Right now I needed to think about Gil Perez. I closed my eyes and went back. I thought about him at camp, how we horsed around, how I used to fun-punch him in the arm, the way he'd say, "Wimp! I didn't even feel that "

  I could see him now, with the skinny torso, his shorts too baggy before that was a fashionable look, the smile that needed major orthodontia, the'a

  My eyes opened. Something felt wrong.

  I headed into the basement. I found the cardboard box right away. Jane had been good about marking everything. I saw her extra neat handwriting on the side of the box. It made me pause. Handwriting is so damn personal. My fingertips drifted over it. I touched her lettering and pictured her with the big Magic Marker in her hand, the top in her mouth as she wrote boldly: photographs-Copeland's.

  I had made many mistakes in my life. But Jane'a it was my one great break. Her good transformed me, made me better and stronger in every way. Yes, I loved her and there was passion, but more than that, she had the ability to make me my best. I was neurotic and insecure, the financial-aid kid at a school with very few of them, and there she was, this nearly perfect creature who saw something in me. How? How could I be so awful and worthless if a creature this magnificent loved me?

  Jane was my rock. And then she got sick. My rock crumbled. And so did I.

  I found the photographs from that long-ago summer. There were none of Lucy. I had wisely thrown them all away years ago. Lucy and I had our songs too ' Cat Stevens, James Taylor, stuff that was syrupy enough to be gag worthy. I have trouble listening to them. Still. To this day. I make sure that they are nowhere near my iPod. If they come on the radio, I switch stations at a dizzying speed.

  I sifted through a stack of pictures from that summer. Most of them were of my sister. I pushed through them until I found one that was taken three days before she died. Doug Billingham was in the picture, her boyfriend. A rich kid. Mom had approved, of course. The camp was an odd social mix of privileged and poor. Inside that camp, the upper and lower classes mingled on about as level a playing field as you could find. That was how the hippie who ran the camp, Lucys fun-loving hippie dad, Ira, wanted it.

  Margot Green, another rich kid, was smack in the middle. She always was. She had been the camp hottie and knew it. She was blond and busty and worked it constantly. She always dated older guys, until Gil anyway, and to the mere mortals around her, Margots life was like something on TV, a melodrama we all watched with fascination. I looked at her now and pictured her throat slit. I closed my eyes for a second.

  Gil Perez was in the photograph too. And that was why I was here.

  I pointed my desk light and took a closer look.

  Upstairs, I'd remembered something. I am right-handed, but when I fun-punched Gil on the arm, I used my left hand. I did this to avoid touching that awful scar. True, it was healed up, but I was afraid to go near it. Like it might tear open anew and start spewing blood. So I used my left hand and hit his right arm. I squinted and moved closer.

  I could see the bottom of the scar peaking out beneath the T-shirt. The room began to spin. Mrs. Perez had said that her sons scar was on his right arm. But then I would have punched him with my right hand, ergo, hitting his left shoulder. But I hadn't done that. I had punched him with my left hand- on his right shoulder.

  Now I had the proof. Gil Perez's scar was on his left arm. Mrs. Perez had lied. And now I had to wonder why.

  Chapter 7

  ARRIVED IN MY OFFICE EARLY THE NEXT MORNING. In half an hour, I would have Chamique Johnson, the victim, on the stand. I was going over my notes. When the clock struck nine, I had enough. So I called Detective York."Mrs. Perez lied," I said.

  He listened to my explanation.

  "Lied," York repeated when I finished. "Don't you think that's a little strong?"

  "What would you call it?"

  "Maybe she just made a mistake?"

  "A mistake about which one of her son's arms was scarred?"

  "Sure, why not. She knew it wasn't him already. Natural."

  I wasn't buying it. "Have you got anything new on the case?"

  "We think Santiago was living in New Jersey."

  "You have an address?"

  "Nope. But we have a girlfriend. Or at least we think she's a girlfriend. A friend anyway."

  "How did you find her?"

  "That empty cell phone. She called it looking for him."

  "So who is he really? Manolo Santiago, I mean?"

  "Don't know."

  "The girlfriend won't tell you?"

  "The girlfriend only knew him as Santiago. Oh, something else important."

  "What?"

  "His body was moved. I mean, we were sure of that in the first place. But now we have it confirmed. And our ME says, based on the bleeding out and some other nonsense I don't quite understand or care to, Santiago was probably dead an hour before he got dumped. There are some carpet fibers, stuff like that. Preliminary shows that they're from a car."

  "So Santiago was murdered, stuck in a trunk, and then dumped in Washington Heights?"

  "That's our working theory."

  "Do you have a make on the car?"

  "Not yet. But our guy says it's something old. That's all he knows. But they're working on it."

  "How old?"

  "I don't know. Not new. Come on, Copeland, give me a break here."

  "I have a pretty big personal interest in this case." "Speaking of which."

  "What?"

  "Why don't you jump in and help?"

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning I have a psychotic caseload. We now have a possible New Jersey connection -Santiago probably lived there. Or at least his girlfriend does. And that's where she saw him exclusively, in New Jersey." My county?

  "No, I think it's Hudson. Or maybe Bergen. Hell, I don't know. But its close enough. But let me add something else into the mix."

  "I'm listening."

  "Your sister lived in New Jersey, right?"

  "Yes."

  "That's not my jurisdiction. You can probably claim it as your own, even if it's out of your county. Open up the old case, it's not like any body else wants it."

  I thought about that. I was being played, in part. He was hoping I'd do some of his legwork and hand off the glory, all of which was fine for me.

  "This girlfriend," I said. "Do you have a name?"

  "Raya Singh."

  "How about an address?"

  "You're going to talk to her?"

  "You mind?"

  "As long as you don't screw up my case, you can do whatever you want. But can I give you a piece of friendly advice?"

  "Sure."

  "That lunatic, the Summer Slasher. I forget his real name."

  "Wayne Steubens," I said.

  "You knew him, didn't you?"

  "Have you read the case file?" I asked.

  "Yep. They looked at you hard for it, didn't they?"

  I still remember that Sheriff Lowell, that look of skepticism. Understandable, of course.

  "What's your point?"

  "Just this: Steubens is still looking to overturn his conviction."

  "He was never tried for those first four murders," I said. "They didn't need them, they had better evidence in the other cases."

  "I know. But still. He was linked. If it really is Gil Perez and Steubens was to hear, well, it would help him. You know what I'm saying?"

  He was saying to keep it quiet until I knew something for sure. I got that. The last thing I wanted to do was help Wayne Steubens.

  We hung up. Loren Muse st
uck her head in my office.

  "You got anything new for me?" I asked.

  "Nope. Sorry." She checked her watch. "You ready for your big direct?"

  "I am."

  "Then come on. Its show time."

  "The People call Chamique Johnson."

  Chamique was dressed on the conservative side but not ridiculously so. You could still see the street. You could still see the curves. I even had her wear high heels. There are times you try to obstruct the jury's view. And there are times, like this, when you know that your only chance is for them to see the entire picture, warts and all.

  Chamique kept her head high. Her eyes shifted right and left, not in a dishonest, Nixon way but in a where-is-the-next-blow-coming-from way. Her makeup was a little heavy. But that was okay too. It made her look like a girl trying to look like a grown-up.

  There were those in my office who disagreed with this strategy. But I believed that if you are going to go down, go down with the truth. So that was what I was prepared to do now.

  Chamique stated her name and swore on the Bible and sat down. I smiled at her and met her eye. Chamique offered me a little nod, giving me the okay to go ahead.

  "You work as a stripper, isn't that right?"

  Opening up with a question like that, without any preliminaries, surprised the gallery. There were a few gasps. Chamique blinked. She had some idea of what I was going to do here, but I had intentionally not been specific.

  "Part time," she said.

  I didn't like that answer. It seemed too wary.

  "But you do take off your clothes for money, right?"

  "Yeah."

  That was more like it. No hesitation.

  "Do you strip in clubs or at private parties?"

  "Both."

  "What club do you strip out of?"

  "Pink Tail. It's in Newark."

  "How old are you?" I asked.

  "Sixteen."

  "Don't you have to be eighteen to strip?"

  "Yeah."

  "So how do you get around that?"

  Chamique shrugged. "I got a fake ID, says I'm twenty-one."

  "So you break the law?"

  "Guess so."

  "Do you break the law or not?" I asked. There was a hint of steel in my voice. Chamique understood. I wanted her to be honest. I wanted her to-pardon the pun, her being a stripper and all-expose herself totally. The steel was a reminder.

  "Yeah. I break the law."

  I looked over at the defense table. Mort Pubin stared at me as if I were out of my mind. Flair Hickory had his palms pressed together, his index finger resting on his lips. Their two clients, Barry Marantz and Edward Jenrette, wore blue blazers and pale faces. They did not look smug or confident or evil. They looked contrite and scared and very young. The cynic would say that this was intentional-that their lawyers had told them how to sit and what expressions to wear on their faces. But I knew better. I just didn't let it matter to me.

  I smiled at my witness. "You're not the only one, Chamique. We found a bunch of fake IDs at your rapists' frat house, so that they could all go out and do a little underage partying. At least you broke the law to make a living."

  Mort was on his feet. "Objection!"

  "Sustained."

  But it was in. As the old saw goes, "You can't unring a bell."

  "Miss Johnson," I continued, "you're not a virgin, are you?"

  "No."

  "In fact, you have a son out of wedlock."

  "I do."

  "How old is he?"

  "Fifteen months."

  "Tell me, Miss Johnson. Does the fact that you're not a virgin and have a son out of marriage make you less of a human being?" "Objection!" "Sustained." The judge, a bushy-eyed man named Arnold Pierce, frowned at me.

  "I'm just pointing out the obvious, Your Honor. If Miss Johnson were an upper-class blonde from Short Hills or Livingston-"

  "Save it for the summation, Mr. Copeland."

  I would. And I had used it in the opening. I turned back to my victim.

  "Do you enjoy stripping, Chamique?"

  "Objection!" Mort Pubin was up again. "Irrelevant. Who cares if she likes stripping or not?" Judge Pierce looked at me. "Well?" "Tell you what," I said, looking at Pubin. "I won't ask about her stripping if you don't."

  Pubin went still. Flair Hickory still had not spoken. He did not like to object. By and large, juries don't like objections. They think you're hiding something from them. Flair wanted to stay liked. So he had Mort do the hatchet work. It was the attorney version of good cop, bad cop.

  I turned back to Chamique. "You weren't stripping the night you were raped, were you?"

  "Objection!"

  "Alleged rape," I corrected.

  "No," Chamique said. "I was invited."

  "You were invited to a party at the frat house where Mr. Marantz and Mr. Jenrette live?"

  "That's right."

  "Did either Mr. Marantz or Mr. Jenrette invite you?"

  "No."

  "Who did?"

  "Another boy who lived there."

  "Whats his name?"

  "Jerry Flynn."

  "I see. How did you meet Mr. Flynn?"

  "I worked the frat the week before."

  "When you say you worked the frat-"

  "I stripped for them," Chamique finished for me. I liked that. We were getting a rhythm.

  "And Mr. Flynn was there?"

  "They all were."

  "When you say 'they all'-"

  She pointed at the two defendants. "They were there too. A bunch of other guys."

  "How many would you say?"

  "Twenty, twenty-five maybe."

  "Okay, but it was Mr. Flynn who invited you to the party a week later?"

  "Yes."

  "And you accepted the invitation?" Her eyes were wet now, but she held her head high.

  "Yes."

  "Why did you choose to go?" Chamique thought about that.

  "It would be like a billionaire inviting you on his yacht."

  "You were impressed with them?"

  "Yeah. 'Course."

  "And their money?"

  "That too," she said.

  I loved her for that answer.

  "And," she went on, "Jerry was sweet to me when I was stripping."

  "Mr. Flynn treated you nicely?"

  "Yeah."

  I nodded. I was entering trickier territory now, but I went for it. "By the way, Chamique, going back on the night you were hired to strip'a" I felt my breath go a little shallow. "Did you perform other services on any of the men in attendance?"

  I met her eye. She swallowed, but she held it together. Her voice was soft. The edges were gone now. "Yeah."

  "Were these favors of a sexual nature?"

  "Yeah."

  She lowered her head.

  "Don't be ashamed," I said. "You needed the money." I gestured toward the defense table. "What's their excuse?"

  "Objection!"

  "Sustained."

  But Mort Pubin wasn't done. "Your Honor, that statement was an outrage!" "It is an outrage," I agreed. "You should castigate your clients immediately."

  Mort Pubin turned red. His voice was a whine. "Your Honor!"

  "Mr. Copeland."

  I held my palm up to the judge, signaling he was right and I would cease. I am a firm believer in getting out all the bad news during direct, albeit in my own way. You take the wind out of their cross.

  "Were you interested in Mr. Flynn as a potential boyfriend?"

  Mort Pubin again: "Objection! Relevance?"

  "Mr. Copeland?"

  "Of course it's relevant. They are going to say that Miss Johnson is making up these charges to shake down their clients financially. I'm trying to establish her frame of mind on that night."

  "I'll allow it," Judge Pierce said.

  I repeated the question.

  Chamique squirmed a little and it made her look her age. "Jerry was out of my league."

  "But?"

  "But,
I mean, yeah, I don't know. I never met anyone like him. He held a door for me. He was so nice. I'm not used to that."

  "And he's rich. I mean, compared with you."

  "Yeah."

  "Did that mean something to you?"

  "Sure."

  I loved the honesty.

  Chamique's eyes darted toward the jury box. The defiant expression was back. "I got dreams too." I let that echo a few moments before following up. "And what was your dream that night, Chamique?" Mort was about to object again but Flair Hickory put his hand on Morts forearm. Chamique shrugged.

  "It's stupid."

  "Tell me anyway".

  "I thought maybe'a it was stupid'a I thought maybe he'd like me, you know?"

  "I do," I said. "How did you get to the party?"

  "Took a bus from Irvington and then I walked."

  "And when you arrived at the frat house, Mr. Flynn was there?"

  "Yes."

  "Was he still sweet?"

  "At first, yeah." Now a tear escaped. "He was real sweet. It was-"

  She stopped. "It was what, Chamique?"

  "In the beginning", another tear ran down her cheek, "it was the best night of my life." I let the words hang and echo. A third tear escaped. "Are you okay?" I asked Chamique wiped the tear. "I'm fine." "You sure?" Her voice was hard again. "Ask your question, Mr. Copeland," she said. She was wonderful. The jury all had their heads up, listening to, and believing, I thought, every word.

  "Was there a time when Mr. Flynn's behavior toward you changed?"

  "Yeah."

  "When?"

  "I saw him whispering with that one over there." She pointed toward Edward Jenrette.

  "Mr. Jenrette?"

  "Yeah. Him." Jenrette tried not to shrink from Chamique's gaze. He was half successful.

  "You saw Mr. Jenrette whisper something to Mr. Flynn?"

  "Yeah."

  "And then what happened?"

  "Jerry asked me if I wanted to take a walk."

  "By Jerry, you mean Jerry Flynn?"

  "Yeah."

  "Okay, tell us what happened."

  "We walked outside. They had a keg. He asked me if I wanted a beer. I said no. He was acting all jumpy and stuff."