Raymond’s house is set on a hill, back from the road. It’s a brick one-story, really nice by Grain standards. Flower beds flank both sides of the walk. He must take a lot of real cases, not just freebies for the state, “pro bono,” like ours.
I ring the doorbell, and the door is opened by a tall woman with thin brown hair and a big belly under a spandex top and cotton sweats. Raymond is going to be a daddy.
“You must be Hope.” She stands on tiptoes to gaze out at the road. “Isn’t your mother coming in with you?”
“No.”
She motions for me to step in, so I do. Her smile makes her pretty. She puts one arm around her belly, like she’s protecting her child. “Come and sit down. Ray will be out in a minute.”
I take off my soggy sneakers and wish I’d worn socks.
“You don’t have to do that, Hope,” Mrs. Munroe says.
“It’s okay.” I take a whiff of the house and wish Jeremy were here to breathe Munroe air. There’s nothing stale or musty here, just a hint of vanilla and maybe lemon. The white carpet looks new, and it makes me nervous to walk on it, even in bare feet. The furniture matches, and the only mess is on the dining room table, where papers are spread out all over.
“Becca, is that Hope?” Raymond comes out of the hallway, wiping his face with a little towel. He tosses it into a room I’m guessing is the bathroom. “Hey, Hope. We better get down to business. We have a lot to cover.”
“If you’ll excuse me,” Mrs. Munroe says to both of us, “I think I’ll go lie down for a while.”
Raymond stops in his tracks. “Are you okay? Are you nauseous?”
“I’m just tired, Ray. Offer Hope something to drink, will you?” She smiles at me.
“I’m good, thanks.” I feel as if I’m watching one of those TV family shows, where people are nice to each other even though they’re related.
She kisses Raymond on the forehead and disappears down the hall. He watches her go before settling us at the table.
Soon as we sit, he gets serious. “What happened after court adjourned today can’t happen again, Hope.” He doesn’t raise his voice or sound mad, but I know he means business. I think Raymond Munroe might make a good dad. “You and your mother, and Jeremy and I, have to present a united front, whether court is in session or out.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. But… but I don’t agree with you and Rita about Jeremy.”
“I realize that, Hope. But even if we have differences, we have to appear as though we’re on the same team.” He reaches into his briefcase like this discussion is over.
“Please, Raymond? Could I just say something?”
He sighs. I think he’s going to say no, but he puts down his pen. “Two minutes. That’s all I can give you. We have to prepare the rest of your testimony and your cross.”
My heart thumps, and my head feels dizzy. This is my chance, and I know it. “Jeremy didn’t murder Coach Johnson. He liked Coach. I think he may have loved him. And anyway, Jeremy couldn’t kill anybody, even if he hated them. And he’s never hated a living soul. You don’t know Jer like I do.”
“Trials aren’t about what happened. They’re about what either side can prove. You haven’t been in court to hear the prosecution’s case, Hope,” Raymond says.
“You wouldn’t let me,” I protest.
“The judge wouldn’t let you. When you’re done testifying, you might be allowed in the courtroom as a spectator. But that’s not the point. The point is, you didn’t hear the evidence that the prosecution has against Jeremy. And evidence is all the jury can consider.”
“Then we need to get our own evidence!” I insist.
“What evidence? Keller put Sarah McCray on the stand, the woman who discovered the body. She came to the barn a little after eight that morning, and Jeremy almost knocked her over running away. He got blood on her, Hope. John Johnson’s blood.”
I try not to picture this. “He was scared. That’s why he was running away.”
“He was carrying the murder weapon,” Raymond continues. “She saw the bat in his hands.”
I know these facts. I read the papers. “There’s an explanation. I’m sure there is.”
Raymond shakes his head. “Jeremy certainly hasn’t given it. He won’t talk to me.”
“He doesn’t talk!”
Raymond doesn’t lose his cool, even with me shouting. “All right. He hasn’t written. He could write the explanation.”
“Maybe he’s scared! Maybe he… he saw it happen. He saw who did it, and he’s afraid to say.”
“His are the only fingerprints on the bat. And Mrs. McCray would have seen if somebody else had been there.”
I’m breathing hard. If I cried, ever, I’d be crying now. “He didn’t do it. Jeremy didn’t do it.”
“I’m not saying he did.” Raymond’s voice is softer, less lawyerly. “I’m just telling you what the jury’s heard up to now. The prosecution’s case is strong. I’m the only lawyer your brother has, and I have to look out for his best interest. Right now, that means going after the insanity plea as hard as I can. If I don’t, and if the jury finds him guilty…”
Raymond doesn’t finish his sentence… because he doesn’t have to.
7
Raymond sits up straight and pulls over a file from the stack on the table. “So, are you ready to get down to some serious work?”
I nod. I want to keep trying to convince Raymond that Jeremy couldn’t murder anybody, but I’m all out of arguments. I wish Jeremy had somebody smarter for a sister.
“Okay.” He’s already jotting things on his yellow notepad. “Tomorrow, I have to let Dr. Brown, the psychiatrist, testify before I recall you. I don’t like breaking up your testimony, but I don’t have a choice. Dr. Brown is testifying in a big case in New York and has to get back. She’s good, though. She won’t take long, and we need her to explain Jeremy’s condition to the jury.”
People have been trying to explain Jeremy for as long as I can remember. I keep this thought to myself. “Then maybe you don’t need me again?” I’d give almost anything not to have to get back up on the witness stand.
Raymond smiles at me. “I need your testimony, Hope. You give a human face to the clinical analysis.”
I nod.
“Good,” he says, shuffling papers. “We should still be able to finish your direct testimony with no problem. I want you to tell the jury about Jeremy and his empty jars.”
I’ve already agreed to this, but I don’t like it. Everybody else thinks it’s weird that my brother collects empty jars, but I don’t. I tell Raymond a bunch of stories, like how Jer always carries a couple of jars in his backpack and sometimes gets them out and opens and closes them. Then I tell him about the time we were in the IGA and Jeremy loaded up his backpack with Mason jars, then threw a fit when I took the jars out and put them back on the shelf.
“Good,” Raymond says, scribbling notes. “You can tell that one-just like that, Hope. What else?”
It feels like I’m tattling on my brother, but I keep going. “Most of the time, he uses regular jars that are empty. He peels off the labels. I have to wash them fast, when he’s not looking, before he puts them in his pack or squirrels them under his bed. They can really stink if I don’t.”
“What does he do with all those jars?” Raymond asks, still writing.
I don’t know if he’s asked for real or for practice, but I answer anyway. “He saves them. Sooner or later, they end up on the shelves in his bedroom. I’ve never counted, but he probably has a couple hundred in every shape and size.”
“Keep talking, Hope.”
I have so many memories of Jeremy and his jars. It’s hard to settle on a single story. “Sometimes, if a jar of mayonnaise is almost empty, he’ll dump out what’s left-usually into the wastebasket, but not always.”
I remember a day about four years ago. I can almost see Jeremy in his jeans and a gray sweatshirt I got him at the Salvation Army thrift store. His whole body is wound tight, and his eyes bulge. He’s in the kitchen, with the refrigerator door open. At his feet is a pile of long, sliced dill pickles swimming in a sea of yellow-green pickle juice.