Healing Sands (47 page)

“I told your colleague—what's his name? Kyle Neering?”

“You saw Kyle?”

“The night it happened, when I went to the scene to take pictures. I told him I'd help with bail, but he never called me.”

Sullivan's eyes widened. “The night of the murder?”

“I didn't even know you were a suspect already, but he seemed to know what was going on. He was really concerned, and it scared me.” I hunched my shoulders. “I guess rightfully so, huh?”

His attention seemed to have snagged on something else. I rubbed my hand across the computer.

“I'm not going to keep you,” I said. “I do want to show you something.”

Sullivan pulled himself back to me and nodded. I opened the laptop, pulled up the shots I'd taken earlier, and clicked on a close-up of his profile. His chin was lifted, his eyes focused and clear. There was no downward slant of shame, no uncertainty around his mouth. It was the picture of a man anyone would trust.

“This'll be on the front page of the
Sun-News
tomorrow,” I said. “I made a picture of an innocent man.”

“I always said you were good.”

“Just remember what I told you: I don't manipulate. I just photograph what's there.”

“Thank you, Ryan. I mean it. This is . . . I can't even . . .”

“Don't try,” I said.

I closed the computer and stood up. Only then did I see the KRWG van parked across the street.

“I think you should go inside and close all your shades,” I said. “I've given you all the coverage you need.”

Despite his vow never to be closed in again, Sully did what Ryan suggested—though not only to get away from the reporters. He had to get a handle on what else she'd told him.

He closed the last set of curtains in the kitchen and leaned on the sink, forcing himself to line up the facts in a mind that was running in a frantic circle.

He saw Kyle the day of the murder, Wednesday, just before he talked to Porphyria. He had a duffel bag in his hand, and he told Sully he was going back to Little Rock for a few days to finalize the sale of his house.

Kyle had been shocked when he got back to town and found out what happened—Sully was sure that was what Rusty told him when they talked Saturday morning.

Sully cocked his head back and searched the cracks in the ceiling. Ryan had just told him she saw Kyle at Belinda Cox's the night of the murder.

All right—so he hadn't left town yet. Then why the big surprise when he got back?

That part might be explained by a blurring of somebody's memory. But not the other thing. Not Kyle's concern for Sully before he was even arrested. For that matter, before the police had even questioned him.

The doorbell rang.

“Channel 6 News, Dr. Crisp,” someone shouted. “We'd like to ask you a few questions.”

Sully shook his head in the empty kitchen. No. Not until he asked a few of his own.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

I
didn't need coffee to wake me up the morning the trial resumed. I hadn't slept all night.

But I rethought that when I arrived thirty minutes before they opened the courtroom doors and had nothing to do with my hands as I stood in the corridor waiting. The stuff they sold in the kiosk downstairs tasted like engine sludge, but holding a cup might keep me from taking a swing at Ian if I saw him. I turned to the steps and ran almost head-on into Elena Sanchez.

I'd managed to avoid her on Monday, and our eyes hadn't met in the courtroom. She may have watched me from across the aisle, the way I had studied her, and made the connection that I was Jake's mother; I didn't know. Now, as delight replaced the grief in her eyes, I hoped she hadn't.

“Grafa!”
she said. Her warm hands grasped mine, and her eyes went to my chest, where in her presence my camera always hung. “No pictures today?”

My hope was realized. But as she gazed at me, smiling and trusting, I couldn't let it go on.

“I'm not here as a photographer today, Elena,” I said. “I'm here as Jacob Coe's mother.”

I let the truth sink in, watched the disbelief and the disillusion rise to the surface. She withdrew her hands and stepped back from me, and in her eyes I saw what might have been slip away.

“Ryan,” a male voice said behind me.

I turned to face Will and felt Elena brush past as she hurried away.

“I don't think it's a good idea for you to be talking to her,” he said.

I shook my head. “Don't worry. It won't happen again.”

I couldn't think about Elena Sanchez once Jake was brought in. He smiled at me when I said his name, and he even let Will put his arm around him and pull him closer for a conference.

“He seems good, doesn't he?” Dan whispered to me.

“Almost.” I looked around him to the empty seat on his other side. “Where's Ginger?”

“Out in the hall with Ian. He can't come in until it's time for him to testify, so she's waiting with him.”

“So . . .” I said.

“I gave the magazine to Will,” he said.

I wasn't completely satisfied with that and was about to say so when Will patted Jake on the back and swiveled toward us, eyes drooping at the corners. “I couldn't get the magazine into evidence,” he said.

“Why not?” I said.

“An issue of relevance. But I can still use what you've told me on cross.”

I started to protest again, but the bailiff told us to rise. My hope didn't.

With the usual preliminaries out of the way, Nina Hernandez stood up as if she were about to announce an Academy Award winner and called Ian Iverton to the stand. My old anger went right up my spine and, I knew, into my face. Will had instructed us not to make any audible responses, no matter what happened, but he hadn't said anything about curled lips and squinty eyes.

Ian approached with a confident stride, wearing pressed khakis and a crisp white oxford shirt and a necktie he must have ripped off some prep school kid. He took his oath to tell the truth soberly, while I, to use Alex's word, tried not to puke.

When I stole a look at Jake, however, he was watching Ian with the same rapt attention he always gave the boy. He sat upright at the table, neck straining forward, the picture of eager anticipation. Will said he'd told Jake everything Alex reported to me and informed him of our suspicions that Ian had planted the bomb as well, but Jake still refused to talk—so what was this? What was Jake expecting Ian to say?

What Nina Hernandez expected him to say was apparent right after she established Ian's relationship to Jake and how, because Ian was a school leader, a star athlete, and an honor student, he could assess a situation intelligently.

“Were you aware of the relationship between Jacob Coe and the victim, Miguel Sanchez?”

Ian sighed deeply and said yes.

“And how is it that you know about their friendship?”

“It wasn't a friendship,” Ian said. “Jake hated Miguel.”

“Objection. Hearsay,” Will said.

The judge overruled him and nodded for Hernandez to proceed. Dan put his hand on my arm. That and that alone kept me in my seat.

“Did Jake
tell
you he hated Miguel?” she asked Ian.

“All the time.” Ian made a pained face. “But he didn't have to tell me. I saw it.”

“Saw it how?”

“When we were playing soccer, Jake was always making racial slurs, calling Miguel a bean eater, among other things. He was extremely upset when he found out Miguel was trying out for the select team.”

“Did he do anything to stop him?”

Ian shook his head. “He wanted to, but I told him no—everybody has a right to take their shot.”

I had to plaster both hands across my mouth. Jake was perfectly still at the table, staring at Ian, all color gone from his face.

“Did Miguel make the team?”

“Yes, ma'am. So did Jake.”

“Was Jake upset about that?”

Ian looked down at his lap, something I had never seen him do.

“Ian,” Hernandez said. “I know Jake Coe is your friend, but you've got to tell the truth.”

He made a show of swallowing and finally said in a half whisper, “He was beyond upset. He said he was never playing soccer with that Mexican—”

And Ian let out a string of words I knew had never come from my son's mouth. I jerked my head toward Will, certain he would stand up and object to this obvious perjury. But he was turned toward Jake, who was whispering into his ear.

“Ian,” Hernandez said, “did you know Jake Coe planned to attack Miguel Sanchez in the alley that day?”

Ian pulled his neck up indignantly. “Absolutely not. If I had, I would have told someone. Friend or no friend, I wouldn't have let something like that happen.”

“One more question.” Nina Hernandez pressed praying hands against her lips before she went on. “If you and the defendant were such close friends, why wouldn't he tell you about his plan?”

“I guess because he knew I wouldn't have anything to do with killing somebody.”

The room went black around the edges, and I could hear myself gasping for air and sanity. Will put a hand back toward me and stood up, all in one fluid motion.

“Your Honor, I would like to request a recess to confer with my client,” he said.

The judge looked pointedly at his watch. “We've only been in session for a half hour, Mr. Yarborough.”

“The prosecution was granted four days, Your Honor. I'm only asking for twenty minutes.”

“All right. Make it thirty.” The judge looked at Ian. “You will take the stand again for Mr. Yarborough's cross-examination after the recess, Mr. Iverton. You remain under oath.”

Ian stepped obediently from the stand. In the midst of the gavel pounding and the buzzing of voices, Will conferred with a guard and took Jake up the side aisle and out into the hall.

“Where are they going?” I said to anyone who would answer.

The guard jerked his head toward the door. “Conference room.”

I took off.

“You can't go in,” he called after me.

I didn't ask him what army was going to try and stop me as I charged up the aisle and shoved my body against the heavy wooden door that swung out into the corridor. I nearly mowed Elena Sanchez down with it.

“Grafa,”
she said.

“I'm sorry, Elena,” I said. “I'm sorry I misled you. I'm sorry for everything—but I have to go to my son.”

“No.
Grafa
, you must listen.”

I was backing off from her, pushing away her reaching hands. “I will,” I said. “Later.”

“Now. Please.”

She pulled me to the other side of the corridor, then took my face in her icy palms and forced me to look at her.

“Everything that boy said was a lie, Elena.” My voice was loud and shrill, and I couldn't stop it. “But everyone believes him, and I have to—”

“I do not,” she said.

“What?”

She put her finger to my lips. “That boy—Ian. I know his voice. He call for Miguel that day, on the telephone.”

I stared at her.

“I am home from work, sick, and I answer the phone.
That
voice ask for Miguel.
That
boy.” Elena pulled her hands to the sides of her own face, as if to stop it from collapsing in her pain. “I told him where is Miguel.
I
told him. I lead him to my son, so he can kill him.”

She did collapse then, into my arms.

Sully had paced and he'd prayed and he'd planned. He was ready at nine thirty Friday morning when Harlan Snow returned his call from the evening before.

“Sullivan, I haven't gotten much further with your case than I was yesterday,” he said before Sully could get past hello. “You have to understand, this takes time.”

“I just have one question for you.”

Sully detected a sigh, but Snow said, “Shoot.”

“I've been thinking about this severe emotional distress idea.”

“
Extreme
is the word,” Snow said. “Extreme emotional distress. And we haven't decided to go that route.”

“I'm just trying to think ahead, in terms of who could testify to that.”

Sully heard papers being shifted.

“Did you have anybody in mind?” Snow said.

“Detective Baranovic said someone at my clinic told him I was under a lot of stress. That was probably Martha Fitzgerald.”

Sully waited, holding his breath and with it his hope that all of his conclusions had been wrong.

“I don't see her name on the report,” Snow said. “It says that information came from a Kyle Neering. But listen, Sullivan, we'll put our heads together on that down the road. You let me . . .”

Sully missed the rest of it. He wasn't even sure he said good-bye before he hung up.

He sagged against the refrigerator. He'd known it since he talked to Ryan. Formed a plan around it. But he'd also had hope that he wouldn't have to follow through.

Only the alternative made him open his phone again, punch in the number for the clinic, and pray shamelessly that Rusty wouldn't answer.

Olivia did, sounding like an orphaned waif.

“Hey, Liv,” he said. “You okay?”

“Dr.—”

“Yeah, it's me. Just checking in.”

After a tiny pause, she said, in a voice that tried to sound formal, “Mr. Huff isn't here. He's not coming in until noon.”

“Ah.”

Again a pause. And then she broke into babbling. “He doesn't need to. We don't have any clients this morning. Everybody canceled, which is stupid because anybody who's ever even seen you knows you didn't kill somebody.”

Sully pulled away from the fridge and straddled a chair. He should have known he could count on Olivia to tell him more than he needed to know and at least some of what he did, without even having to ask.

“Kyle's not here either,” she was saying. “And that is just fine with me.”