Archives:
July 1-July 7, 2007
July 1, 2007
My father stands at the kitchen window, sipping a glass of cranberry juice. It's 11 in the morning. Dad's just gotten back from church, while I've just gotten out of bed, and sit at the kitchen table, eating Cheerios while I flip through the Sunday comics.
“I meant to tell you,” I start up, wiping my mouth off with a napkin, “I talked to Valerie the other night about Charlie, the gardener.”
“Is that right?” he says, still looking out at the street. “What did she say?”
“She said that he kind of creeped her out.”
Dad turns to me now. “Creeped her out?”
“Yeah,” I say sinking Cheerios one by one, and watching them pop back up in my milk. “She said that he was always looking at her and her mother—like watching them.”
“Interesting.”
“And she said that after Darryl talked to him about it he did it less.”
Dad strokes his chin. “So Darryl tells him off about looking at his wife and daughter. That explains why he thought he was mean.”
“That's what I figured.”
“Interesting,” Dad repeats with a nod. “I'll have to ask Valerie more about that the next time I talk to her.” He smiles. “I appreciate what you're doing, Preston . Getting closer to her. I think it really is going to make a difference in this case.”
I look away from him, back down at my cereal. “Yeah. I'm doing the best I can.”July 2, 2007
“I don't know,” Natalie says, pressing pen into her mouth, clicking the end against her teeth. “It sounded a little melodramatic to me.”
“Who's it going to turn off?” Dad asks, rolling up his sleeves. Over the past few minutes, he has delivered a draft of his opening statement to Natalie and me, seeking to refine before he gives the same oration in court tomorrow.
“Ironically, the women,” she says, squinting a little, as if she's deep in thought. “Usually it goes the other way, but all the talk about being a good father and looking after his wife—I think it is going to appeal to some of the men in the jury, the fathers. But the women—especially if any of them are feminists—are going to think it's condescending.”
Dad nods, jotting something down on his legal pad. “What did you think, Preston ?”
I sit on a corner of my card table. “I liked it. But what worried me was that you didn't really get into the evidence of the case.”
“What evidence were you hoping to see?”
“I don't know. I mean, there's just so much that's unclear about the case. No witnesses. Nothing concrete to suggest Darryl did it—just some logical indicators. But if someone wanted to frame him, there's isn't any indication they didn't.”
Dad rubs his chin. “The problem there is that we can't appear to be on the defensive. We can't just take the prosecution's opening statement and say that we're not sure they're right. We have to make this jury identify with Darryl Goodman. It's not enough for them to think that he probably didn't do it. They have to believe that he couldn't have.” He shakes his head. “But you might have a point.” He starts to scribble something down again. “It might be worth reminding them that if he's found guilty, he's found guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.”
Legal pad still in hand, still writing, Dad makes his way back toward his office. “Thanks for the advice,” he half mumbles, stepping inside, and shouldering the door shut behind him.July 3, 2007
“We will show you a murder weapon, covered with Darryl Goodman's fingerprints, to which only Darryl Goodman had the key. We will hear from neighbors who did not see anyone go into the house between the time Cheryl Goodman entered, and the time Darryl Goodman arrived.” Stuart Shelly says, counting off his points on his fingers. “We will prove to you that after 21 years of marriage, Darryl Goodman committed the ultimate crime, when he took the life of his own wife.” He bobs his head. “Thank you.”
With that, the prosecutor heads back to his table. Shelly was pretty aggressive up there, and I'm starting to get a better understanding of what my father said about his opening statement, and not just trying to cast doubt on what Shelly said. After a speech that strong, Dad has to fire back.
“Mr. Shelly was right,” Dad starts, fastening the top button of his blazer as he walks toward the jury. “Cheryl Goodman was murdered. The weapon was Darryl Goodman's hunting rifle, and so his fingerprints were on it. And Mr. Shelly was right, neighbors didn't see anyone go into the house between Mr. and Mrs. Goodman.
“Where Mr. Shelly was wrong, was when he said that Darryl Goodman committed the ultimate crime. No, the ultimate crime—that is something that rests in the hands of you, the jury.” Dad whirls zeroing in on one segment of the jury. “Darryl Goodman lost his wife. This honest, hard working man, lost the woman he loved. To make matters worse, people accuse him of taking her life. So then he loses his reputation. You want to see the ultimate crime? Then you go ahead, and be the ones to take away the rest of this man's life—not only his freedom, but the ability to spend time with his own daughter. His daughter, the one person Darryl Goodman might love more than his wife.”
Dad shakes his head, taking a step back. “There is no conclusive evidence that Darryl Goodman killed his wife. The prosecution will show you its little bits of evidence, sewn together in such a fashion that they look like a case. What I'm going to do is introduce you to people who know Darryl Goodman. I'm going to show you people who can say, with absolute certainty, that he did not commit this crime. And as you get to know this man, you will understand why.
“The prosecutor needs to prove to you that Darryl Goodman is, beyond a reasonable doubt, guilty of this crime. Beyond a reasonable doubt. Sounds pretty daunting, doesn't it?” Dad sticks his hands in his pockets, scanning the jury with his eyes. “They can't do it. They can't prove he's guilty beyond a reasonable doubt, because Darryl Goodman is innocent. And I have confidence in you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that you would not be the ones to commit the ultimate crime, and ruin what's left of a great man.”July 4, 2007
“Wow,” Lois says, from behind her digital camera, flashing pictures of the fireworks overhead.
I'm glad I decided to join the crew from Stephon's tonight, going back to the parking lot outside the mall where most of us stand, Anastasia and I sitting on the trunk of my car. I remember sitting in Jermaine's old pick up last year. It wasn't until tonight that I learned his truck didn't survive last winter.
A series of fireworks go off, four, then five in the air, white, red and blue sparks flashing, then fading in the sky.
I say goodnight to everyone, and we part ways. It's a little awkward, knowing I won't see these people tomorrow or the next day. I'm welcome at the store, but it's just not the place for me anymore. The store, the job—they're what bound us. I'm just not a part of that anymore.
My cell phone goes off as I settle back into my car. The caller ID reads, “Restricted.”
“Hello?”
“ Preston ,” an abnormally deep voice says.
“Yeah, who's this?”
“It doesn't matter who I am. Only what I'm going to do to you.”
I'm sure it's someone playing a joke. Still, the voice is making me a little nervous. “Yeah, and all that matters is what I'm going to do to your mom when I get back home to her.”
There's a deep, kind of sick sounding laughter. “I'm going to enjoy this.”
“All right, who is this? Matt? Chang? Dave?”
“You'll know soon enough.” There's more laughter, then the guy hangs up.
I glance out my window, and click my power lock button on the car, before turning the ignition.July 5, 2007
“Prestonator!”
I turn quickly outside the courthouse, spilling a little of my father's coffee onto my hand. As much as I'm confident the phone call I got last night was a gag, I can't deny that I've been a little jumpy ever since.
Adam is coming up behind me, Valerie at his side. “How's it going, my man?” he goes on.
“Not bad. How are you guys this morning?”
“Ready for another thrilling day in court,” Adam says, rolling his eyes.
Valerie elbows him in the side. “Tell him.”
He turns to her and sighs. “You know, it's not funny if you don't let it build.”
“Tell him.”
Adam raises his arms, turning back to me. “All right, I'm the one who called you last night.”
I chuckle, relieved, but trying not to show it. “Wow. So how did you change your voice like that.”
“Voice modulator. I use it for my radio show.”
“Your radio show?”
“It's a little side project. For now I'm just recording demos and stuff.”
“Ah, well that's neat,” I say, not sure what else to say.
He claps a hand against my shoulder. “I'm recording tomorrow afternoon. You should come with—after we get out of court. I'll show you how it works.”
“Sounds fun,” I lie, as Adam steps ahead of me, going in.
Valerie gives me a half smile and follows after him. I watch them for a second, then continue in after them.July 6, 2007
“Come on, don't be a pussy,” Adam calls, probably ten steps ahead of me by now.
I maintain my slow pace, descending the stairs into the basement of Adam's house. He explained the stairway light is blown. Without any windows to speak of, this basically means that we're walking down the creaky wooden steps blind. Adam may know this path well, but I'm not taking any chances.
Finally, there's a yellow glow to my left, and after giving my eyes a second to adjust, I can see where I'm going.
Adam's studio is a big glass box—almost a room unto itself. As I catch up to him, Adam closes the door, sealing himself in. I can see him laughing inside, then he looks as though he's yelling. I can't hear a word, and begin to wonder what he's trying to prove.
He opens the door at last. “This baby's sound proof. Perfect for recording.”
I chuckle, wondering why I agreed to come here in the first place. “That's cool.” I look all around me, seeing wires running all over the place. There are a couple microphones, a 5 disc CD changer, some sort of soundboard, a turn table—an assortment of stuff I don't know the first thing about. “Wow, this is really something.”
“Everything you need to record a radio show.”
“So, where can I hear your show?”
Adam puts on a headset, and flips one of the switches at his side. “Right now, only from my recordings,” he says in the same deep voice he used to prank call me a couple nights ago. “But that's all going to change once I start sending my demos out to radio stations. Someone's going to pick me up.”
“Cool,” I nod. “So this stuff must cost a fortune.”
Adam nods. “Mr. Goodman was really cool about investing in the project.”
“Adam?” Valerie's voice calls from above us. She was supposed to meet us here. “I thought you were going to get this light—”
Valerie's voice disappears as Adam closes the studio door again. He raises his eyebrows, “It's a beautiful thing, right?”July 7, 2007
“You don't have to do that,” Anastasia says, as I begin to fold a long-sleeved t-shirt. “You're not getting paid.”
“I know,” I nod, going on, folding an arm of the shirt over, “but I know how. And I'm here. I'd might as well help out.”
She shrugs. “Suit yourself.” She continues folding her own shirt at a much quicker pace, then moving on to the next. “So,” Anastasia goes on, “I feel like I'm seeing you a lot lately.”
I set my first shirt aside, and reach for the next. “Not a lot to do in Shermantown.”
“A murder trial's not enough to keep you busy?”
I smirk. “Doesn't hurt. Sometimes I just need something to keep my mind off that, though.”
“Do you think the guy's innocent?”
I nod slowly, looking down. “It's hard to fathom that he's not. I mean, if you knew him—he's just such a nice guy.”
“And what about his daughter?”
“What about her?”
“Looks like the two of you are getting kind of cozy.”
I look up, then nod again. “The picture in the paper.”
It's Anastasia's turn to nod. A front page photo in the local paper last week showed me, Valerie and Adam, holding hands for a second as my father began his opening statement. Valerie took a hold of my hand then, I think just looking to hold onto something.
“How does Teri feel about her?”
“They've never met,” I say. “And, it doesn't matter. It's just a work thing.”
“OK.” She doesn't believe me, and I suppose there's no reason why she should. I can hardly believe it myself.