But for now, it’s just his eyes locked on mine. Something flutters through my chest as I stare back at him, that nagging feeling that I can’t read him, that I don’t know him. He is neither antagonistic nor smug in his stare. He is neither enjoying himself nor resentful. He just stares at me as if somehow, in some way, we are discovering each other, we are connecting with each other, something is happening between us.
I snap my head away, breaking eye contact, sweat popping at my hairline. I take a deep breath and brush the hair off my face.
He is the worst kind of creep. He’s the kind who can suck you in, the sociopath who can smile at you tenderly while he’s devising monstrous ways to torture you. Well, not me, pal. Not anymore. You may have fooled me initially, but no longer.
I turn back, looking in his direction again. He hasn’t moved. His eyes are still on me, his long dark hair hanging over his unshaven face. My heartbeat kicks into a higher gear. I uncross my legs and play with my hands. I shake my head slowly, discreetly, unsure of the meaning of what I’m doing, answering no to a question that has not been asked. His eyes narrow to a squint. His jaw rises slightly and his lips part, as if he’s going to speak, but surely he won’t, not in the middle of a court session while the judge is talking.
He will never speak to me again. And I will never speak to him.
I get to my feet and walk down the courtroom aisle toward the exit, which is guarded by two sheriff’s deputies. I’m done with Noah Walker. The next time I see him, it will be at his sentencing, after the judge informs him he’ll spend the rest of his life behind bars. Yeah, let’s make eye contact then, pal. Let’s see the look on your face then.
“Mr. Brody,” says the judge, “you have a motion?”
“Yes, Judge, I do.”
Defense lawyers always have motions. They always have bullshit arguments, smoke and mirrors, misdirection. But the next words coming from the mouth of Noah Walker’s lawyer freeze me in my tracks, only a few paces from the courtroom door.
“Your Honor,” he says, “the defense moves for a dismissal of all charges.”
23
The courtroom, already respectfully silent, is sucked dry of all sound as Joshua Brody, Noah Walker’s lawyer, makes his pitch for his client’s release.
“There is no competent evidence tying the murder weapon to my client,” he says. “There was never a fingerprint on the weapon. And the only evidence that the knife was found at my client’s house would have come from Chief James — who obviously cannot testify now.”
“Your Honor!” Sebastian Akers jumps to his feet, his perfect-cool persona shaken for the first time. “We will call Detective Isaac Marks — I’m sorry, Acting Chief Isaac Marks — who will testify that the chief showed him the knife after he discovered it under the heating duct in the defendant’s kitchen.”
“But Mr. Marks didn’t see it under the heating duct. Only the chief did, allegedly,” says Noah’s lawyer. “The defense’s theory is that Chief James planted that knife. But now we can’t cross-examine him to establish that. The prosecution shouldn’t be allowed to suggest that the knife was found in my client’s house when we can’t cross-examine the person who supposedly ‘found’ it.”
The judge looks at the prosecutor. “Mr. Akers, the defense makes a valid point here. If the defense can’t cross-examine the chief about a frame-up, how can I let you put the knife in the defendant’s house?”
“Everyone in this courtroom knows the reason why Chief James isn’t here to testify,” says Akers, his voice wobbling. “Everyone knows who made that happen.” He turns and looks at Noah Walker.
“If the State believes my client killed Chief James, they are free to charge him,” says the defense lawyer, Brody. “The last I heard, they found no physical evidence at that crime scene. They have no leads on the chief’s death, just supposition. And more importantly, Judge, this trial is not about Chief James’s murder. This trial is about Zach Stern and Melanie Phillips, and there is no evidence tying my client to the murder weapon, with the chief’s untimely passing. And the chief obviously can’t testify that my client confessed to him, either.” He opens his hands. “So what do they have, without the murder weapon and without a confession to the chief of police? Without any physical evidence whatsoever? They have evidence that my client argued with Melanie Phillips at Tasty’s Diner, and they have this ridiculous testimony from a jailhouse snitch that my client confessed to him.”
“The jailhouse informant’s testimony isn’t evidence?” the judge asks.
“It is, Judge, but c’mon. The unreliability of jailhouse snitch testimony is well documented. He got a sweetheart deal in exchange for making up these ridiculous claims against my client. I mean, Judge, really.” Brody takes a step toward the bench. “Can any of us say that a man should be convicted of two counts of first-degree murder based on no eyewitnesses, no physical evidence, no forensic evidence, no confession — nothing more than the word of a convicted felon looking to cut a deal? And keep in mind, Judge, that it’s our theory that Chief James coerced the snitch into testifying. But now I can’t cross-examine him on that issue, either. For the same reason the knife shouldn’t be considered against my client, neither should the testimony of Dio Cornwall, the snitch.”
“My God,” I whisper to myself. He’s making this sound credible. And the judge — he looks like he’s actually considering this. How could this — this couldn’t possibly—
No. No, no, no.
“Mr. Akers,” says the judge, “I agree with the defense on the murder weapon. The prosecution cannot introduce evidence that the murder weapon was found at the defendant’s house. And the testimony of the jailhouse informant is not exactly something you base an entire case around, now, is it?”
The judge puts out a hand. He seems troubled by this, too, as if he doesn’t want to toss the charges and is looking for help. “But... aside from the knife, there was the defendant’s confession to Chief James. Obviously, the chief can’t tell us about that now. Is there — I don’t suppose anyone else was present at that confession who could testify about it?”
“I...” Sebastian Akers shrugs and shakes his head absently.
“My memory, Mr. Akers, is that the chief was going to testify that he was alone with Noah Walker during the alleged confession.”
“That may be — it — but Judge, it would be grossly unfair to the administration of justice for Noah Walker to profit by murdering the star witness—”
“Mr. Akers,” the judge booms. “I know you have your suspicions about Mr. Walker’s involvement in the chief’s death. But it’s been six days and you haven’t arrested him, much less sought an indictment. Do you, or do you not, have evidence — evidence — that Noah Walker killed Chief James?”
Akers raises his hands helplessly. “As far as I know, the investigation is still in its infancy—”
“I will take that as a no.” Now the judge shakes his head. “So I will ask you again, Counsel, am I correct that Chief James was the only one who could testify to Mr. Walker’s confession?”
“Judge, I would have to—”
“Mr. Akers, you know your case. Don’t stonewall me. Was Chief James the only person present with Noah Walker when he confessed to the murder?”
Sebastian Akers flips through some papers, stalling for time, but he knows the answer as surely as Noah’s lawyer does, as surely as I do. The chief was alone with Noah during the confession.