I get to my feet so fast that I almost drop the jar I’m holding. I set the peanut butter jar back down, right where it was. Then I hurry to the other side of the room, to the shelf farthest away from the beginning shelf. I want the end, the last jar.
There are four jars dated the morning of the murder. I want to rip off the lids to the jars right now and see what Jeremy collected that morning. Did he save air when he learned Coach was his father? He would have. He wouldn’t have let that moment escape. Did he keep collecting air as things kept happening? He couldn’t stop the events, but he could capture them. Four jars. Four jars with the date of the murder, and the last one has a dark smear on the side of the lid. A smear of dried blood.
I have to know. I put one hand on the first lid. I am set, ready to turn, to release that air and see what he wrote.
But I can’t. What if this is evidence now? It might prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Jeremy knew Coach Johnson was his father. It might prove he was there. What if this is bad evidence, incriminating evidence?
Slowly, I let go of the lid. I know Jeremy didn’t murder Coach. I know it without a shadow of a doubt. But I think he saw it happen. And I believe what he saw might be captured in these jars of air. Did he see who murdered his father?
Was it his mother?
I am holding living witnesses, air particles that were there the day of the murder. These jars could prove that my brother is innocent.
I don’t remember Raymond’s number, so I have to look it up in the phone book. It’s past midnight.
Mrs. Munroe answers. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry to call so late, but it’s an emergency. Could I speak to Raymond, please?”
“Just a minute, Hope. I’ll get him.”
It’s way more than a minute before I hear Raymond on the phone. “Hope, what’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up, but-”
“You didn’t,” Raymond says. “I’ve been working on my closing argument. I think we’re going to have to stick with the insanity plea.”
“No!”
“I know you don’t want to go that way, but you heard Keller’s closing, didn’t you? I’m afraid your mother gave them the missing piece, motive. Coach was Jeremy’s father, a father who refused to acknowledge him. No, I’m sorry, Hope, but-”
“But I have something to show you, Raymond! Something the jury has to see. I think it will prove Jeremy didn’t kill Coach, and I think it will prove who did.”
“Hope, it’s too late to-”
“Just hear me out, Raymond. Please?” I can tell he thinks I’m making it up. There’s a silence over the phone. Then Raymond sighs. “Okay. But make it fast, Hope. I have to close tomorrow, no matter what.”
I tell Raymond about the jars, the air, the dates, everything. I read him the notes from the three jars I opened, one accidentally, two on purpose. And I tell him about the four jars, the murder jars.
He doesn’t say anything until I’m done. Finally, he says, so soft-like that I barely hear him, “Imagine that boy collecting air like that, seeing moments and saving them.”
I’m proud of Jer for that. “I know.”
Then Raymond’s tone changes, from awe to something else. Fear? “Hope, what do the jars from the murder date say? Read me the notes.”
“I didn’t open them, Raymond. I don’t think I should. Do you? Won’t Keller say that I did it myself? That I made it up to save Jeremy? This way, I can prove I didn’t write the notes. I didn’t even know what was in them. And the jars, they could do tests on them, right? They could tell they haven’t been opened?”
“Wait. Hope. You haven’t opened the jars?”
“Not the ones from that day.”
“Hope, what if one of the jars, the jar with the blood, says: The day I killed my dad? Did you think about that?”
I swallow hard. I know Raymond doesn’t mean to hurt me. If Jeremy killed his dad, that’s exactly how he’d have labeled that jar. “It won’t say that. He didn’t do it, Raymond. It will be okay. I know Jeremy didn’t do it.” What I don’t want to add is that I think I know who did. I can almost see Rita’s name on that note: The day Rita killed my dad. Rita’s done a lot of bad in her life, but she’s the only mother I’ve ever had.
“Hope, even if those jars clear your brother, I can’t use them. I don’t even know if I could get any of this before the judge. Trial practice precludes introduction of new and unsubstantiated evidence in a closing argument.”
“Raymond, you’re smart. You’re smart enough to get these jars in. You have to give Jeremy’s jars a chance to save him.
Please?”
“I don’t know…” But I can tell he’s thinking.
“You can do it, Raymond. I have faith in you.”
There’s a long silence, but I can hear Raymond breathing, thinking. “Maybe I can’t introduce the jars,” Raymond says slowly, “… but maybe you can.”
“Huh?”
“Why not? The prosecutors took two days for their show-and-tell. Keller brought in half his office for their closing. Why couldn’t the judge let me have my one assistant?”
“Raymond, do you think it would work? I’m not that great talking, even just to one person, you know? And I’m horrible when I have to speak in front of my class at school.” I close my eyes and try to imagine standing up in that courtroom and talking to the jury in front of all those people. It’s horrifying.
But Jeremy’s in that courtroom. And Jer needs me more than he’s ever needed anybody. “If that’s what it takes, I’ll do it.”
“Good. I’ll give it a shot if you will,” Raymond says.
Raymond and I stay on the phone and talk about the best way to show the jars to the jury and to re-create the crime with them. I scribble notes and ask Raymond questions until I can’t think of any more.
Finally, Raymond says, “Hope, we better hang up now. I have a closing to finish, and you have a demonstration to prepare. So, see you in court?”
“See you in court.”
I stay up the rest of the night, working on what I’m going to say to the jury. Pulling out my old school note cards, I write something for each jar. I try saying everything out loud over and over.
When I notice the moonlight has switched to sunlight, I jump into the shower and smile to myself, remembering what I told Chase about morning versus night showerers. I guess this shower counts for both.
Rita’s still out cold, so I’m on my own for wardrobe selection. I end up picking out the gray skirt and white blouse I wore the first day I testified in court, but adding a wide black belt and my favorite sea glass necklace. The glass is green, shaped like a tear.
When I check myself in the mirror, I still don’t look much like a lawyer’s assistant, but I’ll have to do. I’m all Jeremy’s got.
36
I wait until the last minute to wake Rita. She stumbles out of her bedroom, looking like death warmed over. She’s sober, but that’s about all I can say in her favor. We don’t speak to each other, except for me trying to hurry her up. I put ten jars into my backpack, wrapping them in towels. She doesn’t even ask what I’m doing, or why I’m taking a backpack to court. Would she try to stop me if she knew?
It takes me twenty minutes to pass through the courthouse turnstile because the guard insists on searching my pack. It isn’t easy to convince her that the jars don’t have anything deadly in them. Rita doesn’t wait for me.
“Where’ve you been?” Raymond asks as soon as he sees me. He must have been pacing because he’s worked up a sweat.
We only have ten minutes to iron out our plan, and Raymond spends most of it on how to convince the judge that the jars are our way of re-creating the crime scene. That’s his “legal premise” for bringing in the jars and me.
“I have a bad feeling about this,” Raymond says as we enter the courtroom. His feeling is contagious. The room smells like stale pond water and cigars, although it’s against the law to smoke in here. Heads turn when Raymond and I walk by the rows. We set off low conversations, tiny buzzes, like bumblebees in our wake.