A single thread in the weave has been pulled by the defense, and the entire fabric of the prosecution’s case has come apart. Without Uncle Lang to testify, the State can’t tie the murder weapon to Noah’s house. The State can’t say that Noah confessed to a decorated veteran of the Southampton Town Police Department. All Akers can say is that a jailhouse snitch claimed to hear a confession — if the judge doesn’t toss out that testimony, too.
The case is over. I can’t believe this. The case is over. He killed my uncle and is going to walk away from two other murders because of it.
And I passed on the chance to put a bullet between his eyes.
“We’re going to take a thirty-minute recess,” says the judge. “Mr. Akers, I’d advise you to use that half hour well. If you can’t think of some reason between now and then, this case is over.”
24
I push Sebastian Akers into the witness room adjacent to the courtroom and close the door. “This can’t happen,” I say.
“Detective, I know you’re upset, but right now I have to—”
“There’s a police report,” I say. “Lang filled out a report when Noah confessed. Can’t you introduce that as evidence?”
Akers, on the verge of coming unglued, lets out a pained sigh. “A police report is hearsay. You can’t use it unless the defense can cross-examine the cop who wrote it.”
“And Noah killed that cop,” I protest.
“But we can’t prove that, Detective! You know as well as I do that we haven’t been able to come up with a hint of physical evidence. His motive is all we have.”
I look up at the ceiling, searching for answers in the peeling white paint.
“He told me Noah confessed,” I say. “Lang told me.”
“Well, sure!” Akers waves his hand, exasperated. “He probably told a lot of people. Hell, he told newspaper reporters. But guess what that is?”
I drop my head. “Hearsay.”
“Hearsay. Inadmissible in a court of law.”
A long moment passes. I steady myself by placing my hands on the small table. But I sense something in the silence. I look up at Akers, who is studying me carefully.
“Unless,” he says.
I straighten up. “Unless what?”
“There are exceptions to every rule,” he says carefully. “Including the rule against hearsay.”
He gives me a long hard look. Sebastian Akers is a very ambitious man. Undoubtedly, he considers this high-profile case a launching pad for bigger and better things. Or, conversely, a crash landing if he blows it. And five minutes ago, standing before the judge, Akers was on the verge of seeing his case implode before a national audience.
And I was on the verge of watching the man who killed my uncle, and three other people, skip out of court a free man.
“Tell me about the exceptions,” I say.
Akers watches me very carefully, wondering if we’re on the same page. I’m wondering that myself.
“One exception in particular,” he says. “It has to do with when the chief told you about the confession. If he just mentioned it to you casually later that day or something like that, we’re out of luck.”
“But,” I say.
“But if he told you just after the confession happened — let’s say, if he walked out of the jail cell, stunned that Noah had confessed, and told you at just that moment, still in a state of excitement and shock — the law considers that statement to be sufficiently reliable to be admissible. It’s called an excited utterance.”
I sit down in the chair. “An excited utterance.”
“Right. If he said it while he was still in the moment.”
“Still in a state of excitement and surprise.”
“That’s right, Detective.”
Akers’s eyes are wide and intense. He’s holding his breath.
“Whether Noah Walker gets justice, or whether he laughs his way out of court, and probably kills again,” he says to me evenly, “is riding on your answer.”
It’s not the only thing riding on my answer. My sworn oath as a police officer is, too. Because I remember now. I remember when Lang told me about Noah’s confession. It was on his back porch in the early afternoon; he told me Noah had confessed to him that morning, hours earlier.
I clear my throat, adrenaline buzzing through me. “So if I testify that the chief told me about Noah’s confession immediately after it happened—”
“While he was still in a state of excitement...”
Time passes. Memories flood through my mind. My stomach churns like the gears of a locomotive. What does it mean to be a cop? Is it about rules, or is it about justice? In the end, what do I stand for?
What would my uncle do for me, if our roles were reversed?
Finally, Sebastian Akers takes the seat across from me. “We only have a few minutes,” he says. “So, Detective Murphy, I have a question for you.”
My eyes rise up to meet his.
“When was it, exactly, that the chief told you that Noah Walker confessed?”
A hush falls over the courtroom as Judge Barnett resumes his seat on the bench. There are even more sheriff’s deputies present now than earlier, ready to calm the crowd should it be necessary. The energy in the room is suffocating. Or maybe that’s just the shortness of breath I’m experiencing, seated in the front row of the courtroom.
The judge looks over his glasses at the prosecution. “Mr. Akers, does the prosecution have any additional evidence to present?” he asks.
The room goes still. Sebastian Akers rises slowly and buttons his coat. He turns and looks in my direction but does not make eye contact.
“The State calls Detective Jenna Murphy,” he says.
25
The judge gavels the courtroom to order after the lunch break. The morning was spent arguing over the admissibility of my testimony, a bunch of lawyer-speak about the rules of evidence that nobody else in the courtroom understood.
Then I testified for an hour. I told the truth — that my uncle told me that Noah had confessed to him — and then I told a lie. I lied about when he told me. Does it really matter if he told me immediately after the confession or several hours later?
That’s what I’ve been telling myself over and over, anyway, that a handful of hours should not be the difference between a killer going to prison and his walking free to kill again.
Joshua Brody gets to his feet eagerly for cross-examination. My adrenaline starts to pump. I know what’s coming, and it’s something I have to willingly accept, the price I have to pay for testifying.
“Detective Murphy,” says Brody, “you once worked for the New York City Police Department, correct?”
He’s not wasting any time. “Yes. I resigned about a year ago.”
“At the time you resigned, you were under investigation by the Internal Affairs Division, isn’t that true?”
“Yes,” I say, the heat rising to my face.
“You were under investigation for skimming money and drugs during the arrest of a drug dealer, true?”
“I was investigated for it. But I was never charged.”
“You were never charged because you resigned from the force,” he says. “The department couldn’t discipline someone who no longer worked for them.”
“I was never charged,” I reply evenly, “because I did nothing wrong.”
“Oh, I see.” Brody looks away from me toward the jury, then turns his stare back to me. “You just coincidentally decided that it was a good time to move on, at the same time that you were under investigation.”