Closer Than You Know

by Brad Parks

I turned and took my seat next to Mr. Honeywell.

  “Things are going well, right?” I said softly.

  “We’ll find out,” is all he said.

  Court was soon back in session. I was now expecting such legal sorcery from my attorney, I was actually a little disappointed when he declared, “I’d like to call Marcus Peterson.”

  I didn’t know what good Marcus would do. Sure, he was a fine character witness. He could testify I wasn’t the drug-dealing type. But how much would that really help?

  The back doors opened, and in walked Marcus. He didn’t look at me as he passed the defense table. He seemed extra boyish, wearing a suit jacket that was just a little too big for him. As he was sworn in and pointed toward the witness box, I got the distinct sense he was uncomfortable being there.

  “Thank you for joining us, Mr. Peterson,” Mr. Honeywell said. “I know this takes a lot of courage on your part.”

  Courage? To say I was a nice person who didn’t sell cocaine?

  “Thank you,” he said in that soft voice of his.

  “When did you meet the defendant, Ms. Barrick?”

  “Two thousand eleven. I was the manager at the Starbucks in Staunton, and I hired her as a barista.”

  “How would you describe your relationship with her?”

  “To her and to others or to myself?” he asked cryptically.

  “Both, if you would.”

  “Well, to her and to others I would say we were good friends, nothing more.”

  “But that’s not the whole truth, is it?” Mr. Honeywell said.

  “No, not exactly.”

  “Could you please tell the court what you mean?”

  “It’s fair to say I’ve been in love with Melanie Barrick since I first laid eyes on her.”

  Oh.

  My cheeks grew hot. Ben had told me this many times. I was just embarrassed to have it coming out in court—for Marcus and for myself.

  And I still didn’t know what it had to do with a drug case.

  “Did you ever share your feelings with her?”

  “No,” he said. “I was close to doing it many, many times. I fantasized about revealing my feelings to her, to be honest. I would play it out in my head when I couldn’t sleep at night or when I first woke up in the morning.”

  “You never did it, though?”

  “No. At first I think it was because I was her manager and it wouldn’t have been appropriate. After that, well, she was already dating Ben Barrick and . . . I guess I always knew she didn’t feel quite the same way about me. For her, it was friendship and nothing more.”

  “So you pursued that friendship?”

  “Yes. I thought a small piece of Melanie, whatever I could get of her, was better than no Melanie at all.”

  “You’re also married, are you not?”

  “Yes, but to be honest, that wasn’t as much of a factor. I would have left my wife in a heartbeat for even a chance at a relationship with Melanie.”

  “Does your wife know this?”

  “Probably. I always denied it, but she’d have to be pretty stupid not to know I was lying to her.”

  He was saying these things in a straightforward, matter-of-fact way. I could only imagine the anguish that was behind the words.

  “When Ms. Barrick got pregnant and then got married, did that have any impact on your feelings?”

  “No. Or, actually, I should say yes. I was more in love with her than ever. Seeing her pregnant was . . . It was very bittersweet. I knew the circumstances under which she had gotten pregnant, of course, so that was part of it. But I also knew how much joy it brought her. I could see that becoming a mother fulfilled her in a way she had never been fulfilled before.

  “But more than that, I . . . I just loved the way she looked pregnant, the way it gave her this glow. I dreamed about what it would be like if . . . if I were the father of her child. I wanted to raise a child with Melanie more than anything. I guess I’ve just . . . I’ve always just wanted to be around her, no matter what she’s doing. She’s just so pure and . . . and perfect.”

  This was strangely brutal, hearing him confess these things. Even without meaning to be, I had been a source of incredible grief in a friend’s life. I was just glad Kelly wasn’t in the courtroom. I would have been mortified for her.

  Mr. Honeywell, who didn’t have such an avalanche of feelings to dig through as he heard all this, just kept moving ahead.

  “But after she became pregnant and got married, you couldn’t be around her as much as you wanted, is that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I spied on her.”

  My stomach dropped.

  “What do you mean?” Mr. Honeywell asked.

  “I gave her a teddy bear that had a camera installed in it. I set it up on the shelf in the nursery.”

  Oh God. I was now gripping the table in front of me as I replayed all the things I had done in that nursery over the past three months; all the times I had walked in there and casually exposed myself, completely unconcerned that Mr. Snuggs was perched up on that shelf with a perfect view of the chair; all the intimate moments Alex and I had shared that I thought were between only the two of us.

  Had Marcus been watching every time? Was he getting off on glimpses of me bare-breasted? It was all making me too nauseated to even think about.

  “And how did you monitor this camera?” Mr. Honeywell asked.

  “I had an iPad I kept hidden away from my wife, from everyone. The camera fed into that. When my wife was out of the house, I would pull it out and watch Melanie.”

  “The iPad saved everything, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that how you came to possess the footage you’re about to show the court?”

  “Yes,” Marcus said.

  “Your Honor, this is Defense Exhibit Number Two,” Mr. Honeywell said, extracting three DVD jewel cases from his briefcase. “It comes from Mr. Peterson’s iPad. I only became aware of this myself on Friday. It is unedited. I’d like to play it on your television over there, if I could.”

  “Go ahead,” Judge Robbins said.

  I was so stunned by everything, I had to concentrate on my breathing, just to make sure I was still doing it. Marcus had turned to face the television, so his side was to me. I was experiencing this odd contradiction: I could barely look at him, but I also couldn’t stop myself from staring.

  All these years, I had no idea. I thought of the hundreds of times we had been alone together, or drunk together, or watching a movie, or whatever. He had never allowed so much as a single wandering hand to stray somewhere it shouldn’t have.

  He apparently preferred to violate me from afar.

  The television screen in the corner blinked on, then went from dark to light. Then my nursery appeared.

  “When was this video taken?”

  “March the fifth at 1:07 in the afternoon,” Marcus said.

  “How do you know?”

  “The file is time-stamped,” Marcus said.

  Nothing happened for about twenty seconds. The shot came from up high on the shelf, where Mr. Snuggs the teddy bear had lived. Then Richard Coduri—halo scar and all—entered the room and set down a duffel bag.

  He unzipped it, then produced a cardboard box, which he quickly stashed in the closet.

  “Judge, I’m sure you recognize Richard Coduri, the commonwealth’s informant in this case,” Mr. Honeywell said. “And that box is Commonwealth Exhibit Number Seven.”

  “Yes, Mr. Honeywell, thank you.”

  Coduri pulled a small stepladder out of the bag and set it up in the middle of the room. He fished out a screwdriver and, in very workmanlike fashion, unscrewed the air-conditioning vent. Then he set it on the floor.

&nbs
p; “Okay,” Mr. Honeywell said, continuing his commentary. “Now Commonwealth’s Exhibit Numbers One through Six are about to make their appearance.”

  Coduri went back into the bag and produced six plastic packages of white powder and some duct tape. He climbed the ladder and stuffed powder bags inside the vent one at a time, tearing off the lengths of duct tape he needed to secure them there.

  The courtroom had gone completely silent. I glanced over at Amy Kaye. She was as white as the cocaine.

  Once Coduri was done with the large bags, he replaced the vent. His final act was to tear open a small package of cocaine. He sprinkled some of it in Alex’s crib, then carefully poured the rest on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger.

  He snorted it, then stood in the middle of the room and savored the high as the drug entered his bloodstream.

  I already couldn’t wait to show this video to Social Services.

  Coduri left the room, with a now mostly empty duffel bag over his shoulder. Then the screen went black.

  No one in the courtroom moved. No one spoke. Mr. Honeywell was giving us all a moment to reflect that Commonwealth v. Barrick had just been turned on its head.

  Finally, he resumed with, “For the record, Mr. Peterson, what was the time the video ended?”

  “One fourteen,” he said.

  “Thank you. Now, when did you become aware of this video?”

  “The day it was shot.”

  “Did you tell Ms. Barrick?”

  “No,” Marcus said through a constricted throat.

  “Why not?”

  Marcus was breaking down now. “I knew it would destroy our friendship if she learned about the camera.”

  “Did you tell her about it after she was arrested?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Same reason.”

  “Even though she was in jail?”

  “I thought . . . I thought something would . . . I thought she would be cleared. I didn’t think anyone could believe for one second that Melanie was a drug dealer. I kept expecting the sheriff or the prosecution would come to their senses and drop the charges. Then I wouldn’t have to tell her about . . . about any of this. And we could go back to being . . . Whatever we were.”

  “What made you change your mind?”

  “When that didn’t happen, I . . . I just knew I had to . . . That’s why I came to you Friday afternoon. The thought of . . .”

  He couldn’t keep going. He was crying too hard. The last words he choked out before Judge Robbins called for a recess were, “I love you, Melanie. I still love you. I always have. I always will.”

  Maybe it was cruel of me. But I turned away as he spoke.

  FIFTY-NINE

  In eighteen years as a prosecutor, Amy Kaye had been surprised by defense testimony before. She had even been caught outright flat-footed a few times.

  But never like this. Not even close.

  Ordinarily, evidence like this never made it to trial. The defense showed it to the prosecution, which then dropped the charges.

  Then again, thinking like a defense attorney, she could understand why Honeywell had played it the way he did. He had been handed a gift late on a Friday afternoon before a Monday-morning trial. Chances were he wasn’t going to be able to get his client out of jail before the weekend anyway, so why give the prosecution a chance to counter the video?

  Drop your stun bomb at trial. Get your acquittal. Limp off as the hero.

  Amy was glad Robbins had called for a break. Ostensibly, it was to give the witness time to compose himself. Amy needed a moment or three herself. She was too shocked to fully process what was happening.

  Then she checked her phone for messages and her astonishment only amplified. Justin Herzog had written back.

  Amy,

  Don’t know where you’re going with this, but Person B and the Howard Johnson unsub isn’t one of ours. I ran that print against our crime scene database. Anyone who has logged in at a crime scene in Augusta County is in there. No hit.

  Good luck,

  Justin

  Amy stared at the phone, now totally demoralized. She had again allowed herself to believe she was close—so close—to finding this rapist. She had again been wrong. About everything.

  Melanie Barrick was no drug dealer. She had clearly been framed. And the man who planted the drugs was now dead—more than likely killed by his accomplice, whose identity remained every bit as much of a mystery as it had been for three years.

  All Amy knew for sure was that she couldn’t continue prosecuting Barrick. Not for this crime. Not for the murder either. Trying to go forward with some kind of murder-for-hire scenario would be both unjust and patently absurd, a terrible example of the government being unable to give up the ghost.

  As the bailiff brought the court back to order and a red-faced Marcus Peterson resumed the stand, Amy knew what she needed to do.

  End this farce.

  “Okay, welcome back, everyone,” Judge Robbins said. “Your witness, Ms. Kaye.”

  “Actually, Your Honor, in light of the evidence that has just been presented by the defense, I don’t believe there’s any reason to continue this prosecution,” she said. “The commonwealth would like to ask you to dismiss all charges.”

  There was a minor eruption from the back of the courtroom, where Melanie Barrick’s family began clapping and cheering.

  The judge held a hand in the air. “Order. Order, please.”

  He waited until they quieted, before continuing. “Is the commonwealth sure about that?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Mr. Honeywell, I assume that would be satisfactory to your client?”

  Honeywell struggled to his feet. “Your Honor, given what my client has been put through, I would ask that the charges be dismissed with prejudice.”

  “I think we can all agree to that. Ms. Kaye?”

  “Absolutely, Your Honor.”

  “Very well,” Robbins said. “Then unless anyone has any more business with—”

  “Actually, Your Honor, there is one more thing,” Amy said. “And as long as we’re all here, I might as well put it on the record.”

  “Okay, go ahead.”

  “As you’re aware, the commonwealth also has a homicide charge pending against Ms. Barrick,” Amy said. “Given the video and some physical evidence the state lab has made me aware of, the commonwealth will not be going forward with that charge against Ms. Barrick at this time. As long as the folks at Middle River don’t have any lingering issues with Ms. Barrick, there’s no reason why she should remain in detention.”

  “Very well,” Robbins said, then gamely banged his gavel. “This court is adjourned.”

  “All rise,” the bailiff said.

  Amy turned to see Melanie Barrick’s family rushing toward the divider. There was also someone else coming toward the front of the courtroom.

  Aaron Dansby, the duly elected commonwealth’s attorney.

  “What the hell was that?” Dansby demanded. “Why did you dismiss the murder charge?”

  “Are you dead from the neck up?” Amy said. “Did you see that video? There’s not a shred of evidence against that woman. Keeping her in jail would be a travesty.”

  “But she killed Richard Coduri. She shouldn’t be going free. She should be on her way to the damn needle.”

  Dansby was seething, though none of his words were coming out in a normal voice.

  It was more of a whisper.

  SIXTY

  My arms were wrapped around Ben, who had practically leapt over the divider to get at me. Teddy and Wendy weren’t far behind him. My parents lingered farther back.

  As Ben hugged me, I melted into him. It was a lovely feeling. A safe feeling. It had been so long since I experienced anything like it.r />
  “I missed you so much,” he murmured.

  Then I was jolted by a sound I never wanted to hear again.

  That horrible, horrible whisper.

  I had heard it so many times—not just on that awful night but in my head ten thousand times after, whether awake or dreaming. I’d know it anywhere. As much as I wished I could, I would never forget that whisper.

  And the thing about this particular whisper was that it wasn’t in the ether, like usual. It was here. In the courtroom. Coming from a man who was maybe ten feet from where I stood.

  My body stiffened. Ben half pulled away.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  I couldn’t answer him. It was like my mouth was paralyzed. The man was quietly berating Amy Kaye. I stared at him, gripping Ben even tighter.

  Then I saw the man’s eyes and I knew beyond the slightest doubt. They were eyes I had seen many, many times; eyes I could never forget.

  Blue-gray. Enchanting. The kind of eyes you could get lost in.

  My son’s eyes.

  Suddenly, I had the answer to the one question that had so bewildered me from the start: Why Alex? Why go through all this trouble to steal this particular baby when there were so many other babies who could be had for far less trouble?

  Who would value Alex over every other child?

  The answer was now obvious:

  The man who raped me.

  Alex’s biological father.

  “Hey, you okay?” Ben was asking. I was lucky he was still holding me. Otherwise, I might have fallen over.

  The man was already on his way out of the courtroom. Amy Kaye was following after him. They seemed to be having some kind of disagreement. Or rather, I should say he seemed to be irate about something.

  Before it was too late, I willed myself to move. I reached over to Mr. Honeywell, who was quietly packing his things into a battered briefcase, and tugged his sleeve.

  “That man,” I said. “The one leaving the courtroom right now. Who is that?”

  Mr. Honeywell turned in his unhurried way and studied the man, who was now disappearing out through the swinging doors at the back of the courtroom.

  “Oh, him?” he said, like it was an afterthought. “That’s Aaron Dansby. He’s the commonwealth’s attorney. I actually thought he was going to try this case. He usually does when there are reporters around.”