Lies of the Heart (16 page)

A
t 7:45 the next morning, she’s sitting in Richard’s office waiting for him, her compact video camera by her side. Richard stands outside the door with his assistant, Kristen, who had let her in only minutes before. Katie sees the young woman flipping her long blond hair over her shoulder now, shrugging at Richard. Her small, watchful eyes squinting behind her black-framed glasses, her expression easy to interpret:
Don’t ask
me
what she wants.

Richard walks into the office, sits down behind his desk. He picks up a pen, studies the tip before looking at her. “What can I do for you, Katie?”

She knows she’s only one short step away—she just needs that last final push to truly join forces with him, to accept who he is inside the courtroom. She leans forward, elbows on the desk, fingers laced. Face like stone.

“Yesterday you said Jerry was a very dangerous man. Do you really believe that?”

He looks only a little surprised. “Don’t you?”

“He still believes in Santa. His favorite show is Bugs Bunny.”

“He shot your husband point-blank in the face. After warning him that he was about to execute him.”

“And if Jerry was confused? If he thought he was doing something good, like he was somehow helping Nick?”

“By murdering him? Then that makes him even more dangerous, doesn’t it? Suppose he wants to ‘help’ someone else?”

It’s clear by Richard’s demeanor—his eyes narrowed, his head bent slightly, the stillness of his body—that he knows what’s expected of him here. “Jerry was upset with your husband that morning, and he acted on it,” he says evenly. “Whether Jerry’s complicated history played into his motives is almost irrelevant at this point. And you’ve witnessed his violent nature firsthand. He is a volatile, dangerous man.”

“He draws pictures of stick people,” Katie says, her eyes never leaving Richard’s. “Someone has to remind him every morning to wash his hair when he’s in the shower.”

Richard puts the pen down. “He stole a gun, then walked into the gym with the sole purpose of killing your husband. According to the law, that’s premeditated murder.”

Katie searches his face. “I ran into a woman from the Warwick Center last night, Dottie. Dottie said Jerry thinks he saved Nick.”

Richard nods, scribbles on his pad. “Well, it might be a tactic to throw us off, but even if he actually said that, it doesn’t change the facts. We have corroborated evidence proving that Jerry was incited by his past and that he acted on it.”

Richard watches Katie closely, too, now, as if he can sense the small hesitation inside her. “Even though your husband left—”

“I
asked
him to leave. Just for a short time.”

“Exactly.”

“We never thought it would be permanent.”

And then the final push, the exact words she needs to hear from this man, the genuine outrage in his eyes: “You never had the chance to find out, did you, Katie?”

And there it is, the confirmation once again. Jerry’s fault that Nick will never walk through the front door of their home again, Jerry’s fault that the chance, the certainty, was taken away from her. All of this on Richard’s face as he meets her gaze.

“You have something for me?” He pulls the writing tablet closer.

Katie squares her shoulders; she drops the recorder onto the desk, surprised and pleased when Richard startles back into his chair.

“What’s that?”

“I had to use the recorder to film off of the screen. I didn’t have time to get a working print to the lab, so the images are a little fuzzy.”

“What images?”

“I told you about the documentary I started when Jerry was admitted into the program?”

“Yes, but—”

“I have hours and hours of him on film.”

“I know,” Richard says.

He leans into the desk toward Katie, the pen suspended vertically in the air. There’s a probing look on his face that gives Katie a surprising shiver of power; it’s completely unexpected, the sheer force of this moment, how she feels with Richard’s attention focused so entirely on her. To be the one who is watched like this, the one who is listened to so intently.

“Then you know that most of the footage looks like home movies, something a mother or father would take. I already told you that sharing the film with an audience felt very much like a betrayal, so I abandoned it. The reels have been gathering dust for years.”

She is ready for Richard’s confused look. “The problem with this—” he begins.

“
Most
of my footage looks like home movies. There are other things on the film, too. Jerry at the center, working with Nick and with the other clients,” she says, then stops for effect. “And the incidents I told you about, when he first came to the program.”

“You have some of them on
film
?”

Kate nods, hooks a thumb at the TV standing in the corner of his office. “It works?”

“Yes, yes, go ahead.” Richard thumps his pen against his palm.

Katie sets up the recorder, feels Richard’s entire focus on her, on what she will give him. Another acute shudder of pleasure passes through her body. “I didn’t feel like playing with sound, but you’ll get the point.”

The TV fills with static, and then Jerry is grinning in his thrift-store clothes, oversize khaki shorts and a faded T-shirt. His hair is combed neatly to the side, blue eyes wide with suspense as he hunches over a feeder at the Roger Williams Zoo, hands cupped underneath the small metal door. A little girl in a yellow jumper stands beside him, looking up with confused but inquisitive eyes:
Is he a grown-up?
Jerry’s grinning face is focused on the feeder, his hands shaking with excitement. Nick pops quarters into the feeder and says something to the girl—probably that Jerry is special, a grown-up but different from the kind she knows—and twists the knob. The little girl is nodding, looking from Nick to Jerry, and then suddenly Jerry is swirling away from them, eyes lifting to the sky. His face seizes up, arms instantly striking out. He ducks his head under, but his arms still swipe and attack the air. Nick tries to grab hold of his hands—Jerry wrestles clear, teeth clenched, his fist pounding into Nick’s neck. The little girl’s mouth is wide, howling—she’s frozen until her mother darts into view, yanks her away. Jerry kicks now, fists hammering the air, as Nick lunges and throws his arms around Jerry’s middle. For an instant, Jerry looks in the camera’s direction—there, right
there,
his face: not the one Richard has seen, not the one the jurors sneak peeks at in court.

Another burp of static, and there is Jerry again, at a birthday party at Nick and Katie’s apartment, sitting at the head of the table. A paper crown on his head, beaming with anticipation. Her family standing beside the table, smiling. The screen goes dark—someone has turned the lights out—and then the camera moves to capture Nick walking in with a huge Bugs Bunny cake, a forest of candles burning on top. Nick places the cake in front of Jerry, and the camera pans up. Jerry stares down at the candles, face filled with terror. His lips start to mumble, slowly at first, then faster.

Katie leans over, presses the pause button.

“Sometimes when he does that with his lips, it’s a sign,” she says in a dispassionate voice. She pushes the play button.

Jerry raises his head, and his face is completely transformed again: no sign of the normally pudgy innocence or confusion or happiness that is usually there; it has mutated into something horrific, his eyes pinpoints of rage—almost feral, focused on destruction. Not a mentally handicapped man anymore, not a harmless adult with the IQ of a child who loves Saturday-morning cartoons. Just a man, a grown man warped with anger and prepared to inflict violence. His hands seize the table, ready to flip it over. The screen fills with snow again.

Katie hits the stop button. “I have a couple more on film.”

“Holy shit.”

Katie unplugs the cord, winds it around her hand. Tries to quiet the victorious shaking of her body.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” Richard asks, much too softly.

She turns quickly to him—it’s the last thing she expects, this look. She stops winding, her voice smothered by his angry disbelief.

“Why would you withhold something this important, Katie?”

Katie lowers her eyes. “I don’t know.”

“Do the Warwick Center people know you have these incidents on film?”

“Yes.”

Richard shakes his head slowly. “Well,
now
at least something makes sense.”

“What?”

“When you first told me about the footage, I thought it was only a matter of time. I thought Treadmont would request them in discovery, but she didn’t. She hasn’t.”

“But why would she? He looks inhuman, like an animal—”

He shakes his head impatiently now. “Well, I didn’t know that, did I? And if we introduce this footage into evidence, the jurors have a right to see
all
of it.”

“I didn’t think—”

“
Right,
you
didn’t,
” Richard says angrily, then catches himself.

He breathes in deeply, attempts a smile. “Okay, hold on, give me a minute here,” he says. “I’m sorry, my mind is moving too quickly now.” He swivels away from her in his chair, eyes flicking around the room. “Just a minute to process.”

Less than a minute later, he rotates back to her, relaxes into his chair, his face completely altered: smiling easily now, giving Katie that look again, the charming, grateful one that says he
does
need her.

“Okay, sorry about that,” he says. “You’re right, Katie, these images
are
important. They’re so much better than you up on the stand, describing them. You know that no other witnesses have come forward, but with your family, and even
you
up there talking about them, I worried about the jurors thinking you were biased, that all of you might be exaggerating. And I was a little concerned, too, because if you and Nick were the only ones who witnessed all of them firsthand, there might be more room for doubt, for the intensity, or misinterpretation—a way for Donna to deflate some of them. The brief one from his intake at the police station would have helped, but . . . So this is really great, Katie. Great.”

“But why—”

“Well,” he says, shrugging casually, “we’ll have to deal with the flip side. You don’t get to edit this at home, Katie. If we introduce the footage as evidence, a biased party can’t simply string these moments together and take everything else out. The jurors get to see it
all.
”

Richard opens a side drawer, pulls a folder onto his desk. “I wondered why the defense hadn’t taken advantage of the film,” he says almost to himself as he flips through papers inside. “Home movies of Jerry,” he says, then looks up at Katie. “What better way to humanize this man?”

“I’m sorry, maybe that was my doubt. I don’t know.”

He starts to scribble notes. “Don’t be. It’s okay, really, I just got a little ahead of myself. I understand now why the defense wouldn’t be eager to share this, but I wondered why no one else mentioned it.”

Katie squints at him. “Who else would have told you?”

“Oh,” he says, looking up and shrugging again, “I don’t know. Your family. Your sister, if she knew.”

“I thought you interviewed my family about Jerry.”

“Well, yes,” he says, staring blankly at her. “This footage is of Jerry, right? His behavior?”

“Yes, but—”

“Listen, I’m sorry, I really am. My reaction was uncalled for. I wasn’t prepared, but I want to reassure you—I can definitely see now how this is going to work to our advantage.” He shakes his head in wonder. “I don’t know how to thank you, Katie.”

“I
do
want to help.”

He places his hands flat on the desk, leans forward. “I know,” he says. “And you have. This is good, Katie. Better than good. You may have just secured this man’s conviction.”

K
atie peers through the open courtroom door. Dana is late this morning, not a big surprise, but there’s still time. Donna Treadmont stands alone at the defense table, shuffling through some papers, her matronly body encased in yet another gray suit. A court officer approaches from behind, and Katie steps aside. He nods at her.

“Soon,” he says.

She nods back, watches him walk into the courtroom and up the aisle toward Donna and Richard. Richard is sunken down in his chair, steepled fingers against his lips and watching Donna intently. To anyone else it might look as if he’s worried about facing Carly again today, but Katie knows these gestures by now; he’s excited to begin, trying to keep his emotions in check. Donna looks up from a folder, smiles at him. He nods at her, swivels back to the table, and presses a key on his laptop.

The front row is empty except for Detective Mason, who leans down to shuffle through a box at his feet. Behind him are a few familiar faces, old colleagues of Nick’s, some of his college friends, a young male paralegal from Richard’s office. Not enough, Katie thinks, though it’s clear why the crowd appears so meager: most of the people who loved and supported Nick are still on the wrong side of the courtroom.

Behind the defense table it’s the same as yesterday—the Warwick Center employees are crowded into the benches, their bodies in constant motion. In the front row, Daniel leans in close to Veronica and then turns to speak with two women dressed in crisp business suits—probably from Donna Treadmont’s office. Behind them Jan Evers, Jerry’s supervisor from work, consults quietly with Judith Moore, who nods every few seconds, her lips pressed together. There are several other cafeteria workers beside Judith, too, sitting closely and whispering, along with an administrative assistant who quit a year ago to be a stay-at-home mom—she grasps the hand of a girl who works part-time in the summer and nods confidently.