Текст книги "Defending Jacob"

Автор книги: William Landay

Соавторы: William Landay
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“So what do I do if this is what I am?”

Me: “Jacob, what are you saying, exactly?”

“What if I have this thing inside me and I can’t help it?”

“There’s nothing inside you.”

He shook his head.

There was a very long silence, ten seconds or so that seemed to last much longer.

“Jacob,” I said, “the ‘murder gene’ is just a phrase. It’s a metaphor. You understand that, right?”

Shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Jake, you’ve just got it wrong, okay? Even if a murderer had a child who was also a murderer, you wouldn’t need genetics to explain that.”

“How do you know?”

“Oh, I’ve thought about it, Jacob, believe me, I’ve thought about it. But it just can’t be. I think of it this way: if Yo-Yo Ma had a son, the kid wouldn’t be born knowing how to play the cello. He’d have to learn to play the cello just like everyone else. The most you can inherit is talent, potential. What you do with it, what you become, all that is up to you.”

“Did you inherit your father’s talent?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“Look at me. Look at my life, like Jonathan said. You know me. You’ve lived with me fourteen years now. Have I ever been violent, ever?”

He shrugged again, unimpressed. “Maybe you just never learned to play your cello. Doesn’t mean you don’t have the talent.”

“Jacob, what do you want me to say? It’s impossible to prove a thing like that.”

“I know. That’s my problem too. How do I know what’s in me?”

“Nothing is in you.”

“I’ll tell you what, Dad: I think you know exactly how I’m feeling right now. I know exactly why you didn’t tell anyone about this for so long. It wasn’t because of what they might think you were.”

Jacob leaned back and folded his hands on his belly, closing off the subject. He had clasped onto the idea of a murder gene and after that I don’t think he ever let it go. I let the subject drop too. No sense preaching to him about the boundlessness of human potential. He had his generation’s instinctive preference for scientific explanations over the old verities. He knew what happens when science comes up against magical thinking.

11

Running

I am not a natural runner. Too heavy-legged, too big and bulky. I am built like a butcher. And honestly I derive little pleasure from running. I do it because I have to. If I don’t, I get fat, an unhappy tendency I inherited from my mother’s side, all stout-bodied peasant stock from eastern Europe, Scotland, and points unknown. So most mornings around six or six-thirty I galumphed through the streets and the jogging paths in Cold Spring Park until I had pounded out my daily three miles.

I was determined to keep on doing it even after Jacob was indicted. No doubt the neighbors would have preferred that we Barbers not show our faces, particularly in Cold Spring Park. I did accommodate them somewhat. I ran early in the morning, I kept my distance from others, I bowed my head like a fugitive when passing a jogger going the opposite direction. And of course I never ran near the murder site. But I decided from the start that, for my own sanity, I would hold on to this aspect of before-life.

The morning after our initial conference with Jonathan, I experienced that elusive, oxymoronic thing, a “good run.” I felt light and fast. For once, running was not a series of leaps and thuds, but-and I don’t mean to be too poetic about this-like flying. I felt my body rush forward with a kind of natural ease and predatory speed, as if I had always been meant to feel like this. I don’t know why it happened, exactly, though I suspect the added anxiety of the case flooded my system with adrenaline. I moved quickly through Cold Spring Park in the damp chill, around the loop that follows the perimeter of the park, hopping over tree roots and rocks, leaping the little pools of rainwater and the squelching mud patches that dot the park in spring. I felt so good, in fact, that I ran past my usual park exit and went on through the woods a little farther, to the front of the park where, with only the vaguest intention or design in my head, but a conviction-fast growing into a certainty-that Leonard Patz was the one, I came out into the parking lot of the Windsor Apartments.

I padded around the parking lot a bit. I did not have the vaguest idea where Patz’s apartment was. The buildings were plain blocks of red brick, three stories high.

I found Patz’s car, a rusting plum-colored late-nineties Ford Probe whose description I remembered from Patz’s file, among the details Paul Duffy had begun to gather. It was just the sort of car a child molester ought to drive. The vehicular embodiment of a pedophile is precisely a plum-colored late-nineties Ford Probe. Short of flying the NAMBLA flag from the antenna, the car could not have suited the man better. Patz had adorned his pedo-mobile with various disarming badges: a “Teach Children” Massachusetts vanity plate, bumper stickers for the Red Sox and the World Wildlife Fund, with its cuddly panda logo. Both doors were locked. I cupped my hands over the driver’s window to peer inside. The interior was immaculate, if worn.

At the entrance to the nearest apartment building, I found the buzzer for his apartment, “PATZ, L.”

The apartment complex was beginning to stir. A few residents straggled out to their cars or to make the short walk to Dunkin’ Donuts just down the street. Most wore business clothes. One woman coming out of Patz’s building held the door open for me politely-there is no better disguise for a stalker in the suburbs than to present oneself as a clean-shaven Caucasian in jogging clothes-but I declined with a thankful expression. What would I do inside the building? Knock on Patz’s door? No. Not yet, at least.

The idea was only just forming in my head that Jonathan’s approach was too timid. He was thinking too much like a defense lawyer, content to put the Commonwealth to its burden, win it on cross, poke a few holes in Logiudice’s case then argue to the jury that, yes, there was some evidence against Jacob but it wasn’t enough. I preferred to attack, always. To be fair, this was a misinterpretation of what Jonathan had said and badly underestimated him. But I knew-and Jonathan surely did as well-that the better strategy is to offer the jury an alternate narrative. The jurors would want to know, naturally, if Jacob did not do it, who did? We had to offer them a story to satisfy that craving. We humans are swayed more by stories than by abstract concepts like “burden of proof” or “presumed innocent.” We are pattern-seeking, storytelling animals, and have been since we began drawing on cave walls. Patz would be our story. That sounds calculating and dishonest, I realize, as if the whole thing was a matter of trial tactics, so let me add that in this case the counternarrative happened to be true: Patz actually did do it. I knew it. It was only a matter of showing the jury the truth. That was all I ever wanted with respect to Patz: to follow the evidence, play it straight, as I always had. You will say I am protesting too much, making myself sound too virtuous-arguing my own case to a jury. Well, I acknowledge the illogic: Patz did it because Jacob did not. But the illogic was not apparent to me then. I was the boy’s father. And the fact is, I was right to suspect Patz.

12

Confessions

Bringing in a shrink was Jonathan’s idea. It was standard procedure, he told us, to seek a “competency and criminal responsibility evaluation.” But a quick Google search revealed that the shrink he chose was an authority on the role of genetic inheritance in behavior. Despite what he had said about the absurdity of a “murder gene,” Jonathan was preparing to confront the issue if need be. I was convinced that, whatever the scientific merit of the theory, Logiudice would never be allowed to argue it to the jury. The argument was bogus, just a slicked-back, scienced-up version of an ancient courtroom trick, what lawyers call “propensity evidence”: the defendant tends to do stuff like this, so he probably did it here too, even if the prosecution can’t prove it. It’s simple: the defendant is a bank robber; a bank has been robbed-we all know what happened here. It is a way for the prosecution to tempt the jury with a wink and a nudge to convict despite a weak case. No judge would let Logiudice get away with it. Equally important, the science of genetically influenced behavior simply had not matured enough to be admitted in court. It was a new field, and the law purposely lags behind science. The courts cannot afford to make mistakes by taking chances on cutting-edge theories that may not prove out. I did not blame Jonathan for preparing to challenge the murder gene theory. Good trial preparation is really over-preparation. Jonathan had to be prepared for everything, even the one-in-a-hundred chance the judge might admit murder gene evidence. What bothered me was that he did not confide in me what he was up to. He did not trust me. I had fooled myself that we would act as a team, fellow lawyers, colleagues. But to Jonathan, I was just a client. Worse, I was a crazy, unreliable client, one who had to be misled.

Our meetings with the shrink took place on the campus of McLean Hospital, the mental hospital where Dr. Elizabeth Vogel practiced. We met in a bare, bookless room. It was sparsely furnished with a few chairs and low tables. African masks hung on the wall.

Dr. Vogel was a big woman. Not flabby; on the contrary, she had none of the pale softness of an academic, though she was one. (She taught and researched at Harvard Medical School as well as McLean.) Rather, Dr. Vogel had broad shoulders and a great square carved head. She was olive-skinned and, in May, already very tan. Her hair, mostly gray, was cut short. No makeup. A constellation of three diamond studs was arrayed on her brown earlobe. I imagined her hiking up sun-blasted mountain trails every weekend or bashing her way through the waves off Truro. She was big in the sense of prominent too, a big shot, which only enhanced her imposing quality. It was not clear to me why such a woman would choose the quiet, patient work of psychiatry. Her manner suggested a low tolerance for bullshit, of which she must have listened to quite a lot. She did not just sit there and nod, as shrinks are supposed to do. She leaned forward, tilted her head as if to hear you better, as if she was avid for good frank talk, for the real story.

Laurie confessed everything to her willingly, eagerly. In this Earth Mother she felt she had a natural ally, an expert who would explain Jacob’s problems. As if the doctor was on our side. In long question-answer exchanges Laurie tried to draw on Dr. Vogel’s expertise. She quizzed the doctor: How to understand Jacob? How to help him? Laurie did not have the vocabulary, the specific knowledge. She wanted to extract those things from Dr. Vogel. She seemed unaware, or maybe just unconcerned, that Dr. Vogel was extracting from her as well. To be clear, I do not blame Laurie. She loved her son and she believed in psychiatry, in the power of gab. And of course she was shaken. After a few weeks living with the fact of Jacob’s indictment, the strain was beginning to tell; she was vulnerable to a sympathetic ear like Dr. Vogel’s. But for all that, I could not just sit there and let it happen. Laurie was so determined to help Jacob, she nearly hung him.

In our first meeting with the shrink, Laurie offered this rather startling confession: “When Jacob was a baby I used to be able to tell from the sound of his crawl when he was in a scary mood. I know that sounds outrageous, but it’s true. He would come storming down the hall on all fours, and I just knew.”

“You knew what?”

“I knew I was in for it. He would go on rampages. He’d throw things, he’d scream. There was nothing I could do with him. I’d just put him in his crib or his Pack ’n Play and I’d walk away. I’d let him scream and thrash till he calmed down.”

“Don’t all babies scream and thrash, Laurie?”

“Not like this. Not like this.”

I said, “That’s ridiculous. He was a baby. Babies cry.”

“Andy,” the doctor purred, “let her speak. You’ll have your turn. Go on, Laurie.”

“Yes, go on, Laurie. Tell her how Jacob pulled the wings off flies.”

“Doctor, you’ll have to forgive him. He doesn’t believe in this-in talking honestly about private things.”

“That’s not true. I do believe in it.”

“Then why don’t you ever do it?”

“It’s a talent I don’t possess.”

“Talking?”

“Complaining.”

“No, this is called talking, Andy, not complaining. And it’s a skill, not a talent; you could learn it if you wanted to. You can talk for hours in court.”

“That’s different.”

“Because a lawyer doesn’t have to be honest?”

“No, it’s just a different situation, Laurie. There’s a time and a place for everything.”

“My God, Andy, we’re in a psychiatrist’s office. If this isn’t the time and place…”

“Yes, but we’re here for Jacob, not us. Not you. You need to remember that.”

“I think I remember why we’re here, Andy. Don’t worry. I know exactly why we’re here.”

“Do you? You’re not talking like you know it.”

“Don’t lecture me, Andy.”

Dr. Vogel said, “Hold on. I want to make something clear. Andy, I was hired by the defense team. I work for you. There’s no need to hide anything from me. I’m on Jacob’s side. My findings here can only help your son. I’ll submit my report to Jonathan, then you all can decide what to do with it. It’s entirely your decision.”

“And if we want to throw it in the trash?”

“You can. The point is, our conversation here is entirely confidential. There’s no reason to hold back. You don’t need to defend your son, not in this room. I only want the truth about him.”

I made a sour face. The truth about Jacob. Who could say what that was? What was the truth about anyone?

“All right,” Dr. Vogel said. “Laurie, you were describing Jacob as a baby. I’d like to hear more about that.”

“From the time he was two, other kids started getting hurt around Jacob.”

I gave Laurie a hard look. She seemed ethereally unaware of the danger of frankness.

But Laurie returned my glare with a fierce look of her own. I cannot say for certain what she was thinking; Laurie and I did not talk as much or as easily since the night I confessed my secret history. A little curtain had come down between us. But clearly she was in no mood for lawyerly advice. She meant to have her say.

She said, “It happened several times. At day care once, Jacob was toddling on the top of a play structure when another boy fell off. The boy needed stitches. Another time, a little girl flew off the monkey bars and broke her arm. A boy down the street rode his tricycle down a steep hill. That boy needed stitches too. He said Jakey pushed him.”

“How often did these things happen?”

“Every year or so. Jacob’s day care teachers told us all the time that they could not take their eyes off him, he was too rough. I was scared to death he would get kicked out of day care. Then what would we do? I was still working at the time, teaching; we needed day care. There were long waiting lists at all the other day care centers. If Jacob got thrown out, I’d have to stop working. We actually put our name on the list at another day care, just in case.”

“Oh my God, Laurie, he was four years old! This is years ago! What are you talking about?”

“Andy, really, you have to let her speak or this just won’t work.”

“But the time she’s talking about, Jacob was four-years-old.”

“Andy, I understand where you’re coming from. Just let her finish, then you’ll have a turn, all right? All right. Laurie, I’m curious: what did the other kids at day care think of him?”

“Oh, the kids, I don’t know. Jacob had very few playdates, so I imagine the other kids didn’t like him especially.”

“And the parents?”

“I’m sure they didn’t want their kids to be alone with him. But none of the moms ever said anything to me about it. We were all too nice for that. We didn’t criticize each other’s kids. Nice people don’t do that, except behind each other’s backs.”

“What about you, Laurie? What did you think about Jacob’s behavior?”

“I knew I had a difficult child. I did. I knew he had some behavior problems. He was rambunctious, he was a little too rough, a little too aggressive.”

“Was he a bully?”

“No. Not exactly. He just didn’t think about other kids, how they would feel.”

“Was he short-tempered?”

“No.”

“Mean?”

“Mean. No, mean isn’t the word for it either. It was more like-I don’t know what to call it, exactly. He just couldn’t seem to imagine how other kids would feel if he pushed them down, so he was… hard to control. I guess that’s it: he was hard to control. But a lot of boys are like that. That’s how we talked about it at the time: ‘A lot of boys go through this. It’s a phase. Jacob will outgrow it.’ That was how we looked at it. I was horrified when other kids got hurt, of course, but what could I do? What could we do?”

“What did you do, Laurie? Did you ever try to get help?”

“Oh, we talked about it endlessly, Andy and I. Andy always told me not to worry. I asked the pediatrician about it, and he told me the same thing: ‘Don’t worry, Jake is still very little, it will pass.’ They made me feel a little crazy, like I was one of those crazy, jumpy moms always hovering over their kids, freaking out about Band-Aids and… and peanut allergies. And here was Andy and the pediatrician saying, ‘It will pass, it will pass.’ ”

“But it did pass, Laurie. You were overreacting. The pediatrician was right.”

“Was he? Honey, look where we are. You never want to face this.”

“Face what?”

“That maybe Jacob needed help. Maybe it’s our fault. We should have done something.”

“Done what? Or else what?”

Her head drooped, hopeless. The memory of these early childhood incidents haunted her, as if she had seen a shark’s fin that disappeared under water. It was lunacy.

“Laurie, what are you suggesting? This is our son we’re talking about.”

“I’m not suggesting anything, Andy. Don’t make this a loyalty contest or a-a fight. I’m just wondering about what we did back then. I mean, I don’t know what the answer was, I have no idea what we should have done. Maybe Jake needed medication. Or counseling. I don’t know. I just can’t help thinking we must have made mistakes. We must have. We tried so hard and we meant so well. We don’t deserve all this. We were good, responsible people. You know? We did everything right. We weren’t too young. We waited. In fact, we almost waited too long; I was thirty-six when I had Jacob. We weren’t rich, but we both worked hard and we had enough money to give the baby everything he needed. We did everything right, and yet here we are. It isn’t fair.” She shook her head and murmured, “It isn’t fair.”

Beside me, Laurie’s hand rested on the arm of her chair. I thought I might lay my hand on hers to soothe her, but in the moment it took to consider it, she withdrew her hand and knotted her arms down tight over her belly.

She said, “I look back on us then and I see we weren’t ready at all. I mean, no one ever is, right? We were kids. I don’t care how old we were; we were kids. And we were clueless and we were scared shitless, like all new parents. And I don’t know, maybe we made mistakes.”

“What mistakes, Laurie? Really. You’re being dramatic. It just wasn’t that bad. Jacob was a little boisterous and rough. Is that really such a big deal? He was a little boy! Some kids got hurt because four-year-olds get hurt. They totter around, and three-quarters of their body weight is in their enormous heads, so they fall down and crash into things. They fall off play structures, they fall off bicycles. It happens. They’re like drunks. Anyway, the pediatrician was right: Jacob did outgrow it. This stuff all stopped when he got older. You’re beating yourself up, but there’s nothing to feel guilty about, Laurie. We didn’t do anything wrong.”

“That’s just what you always used to say. You never wanted to admit anything was out of place. Or maybe you just never saw it. I mean, I’m not blaming you. It wasn’t your fault. I see that now. I understand what you were dealing with, what you must have been carrying around inside.”

“Oh, don’t put it on that.”

“Andy, it must have been a burden.”

“It wasn’t. Ever. I promise you.”

“All right, whatever you say. But you need to think about the possibility that you don’t see Jacob objectively. You’re not reliable. Dr. Vogel needs to know that.”

“ I’m not reliable?”

“No, you’re not.”

Dr. Vogel was watching, saying nothing. She knew my backstory, of course. It was the reason we hired her, an expert on genetic wickedness. Still, the subject embarrassed me. I fell silent, ashamed.

The psychiatrist said, “Is that true, Laurie? Jacob’s behavior got better as he got older?”

“Yes, in some ways. I mean, it was better, certainly. Kids weren’t getting hurt around him anymore. But he still misbehaved.”

“How?”

“Well, he stole. He always stole, his whole childhood. From stores, from CVS, even from the library. He would steal from me. He’d go right into my purse. I caught him shoplifting a couple of times when he was little. I talked to him about it but it never made any difference. What was I supposed to do? Cut off his hands?”

I said, “This is totally unfair. You’re not being fair to Jacob.”

“Why? I’m being honest.”

“No, you’re being honest about how you feel, because Jacob’s in trouble and you feel responsible somehow, so you’re reading back into his life all these terrible things that just weren’t there. I mean, really: he stole from your purse? So what? You’re just not giving the doctor an accurate picture. We’re here to talk about Jacob’s court case.”

“So?”

“So what does shoplifting have to do with murder? What’s the difference if he took a candy bar or a pen or something from CVS? What on earth does that have to do with Ben Rifkin being brutally stabbed to death? You’re lumping these things together like shoplifting and bloody murder are the same thing. They’re not.”

Dr. Vogel said, “I think what Laurie is describing is a pattern of rule-breaking. She’s suggesting that Jacob, for whatever reason, can’t seem to stay within the bounds of accepted behavior.”

“No. That’s a sociopath.”

“No.”

“What you’re describing-”

“No.”

“-is a sociopath. Is that what you’re saying? Jacob is a sociopath?”

“No.” Dr. Vogel put up her hands. “I didn’t say that, Andy. I did not use that word. I’m just trying to get a complete picture of Jacob. I haven’t come to any conclusions about anything. My mind is wide open.”

Laurie said, earnest and grave, “I think Jacob may have problems. He may need help.”

I shook my head.

“He’s our son, Andy. It’s our responsibility to take care of him.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do.”

Laurie’s eyes glistened but no tears came. She had already done her crying. This was a thought she’d been holding inside awhile, working it through, arriving at this awful conclusion. I think Jacob may have problems.

Dr. Vogel said, with treacherous compassion, “Laurie, do you have doubts about Jacob’s innocence?”

Laurie swiped her eyes dry and sat up stiff-backed. “No.”

“It sounds like you might.”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. He’s not capable of this. A mother knows her child. Jacob’s not capable of this.”

The psychiatrist nodded, accepting the statement even if she did not quite believe it. Even, for that matter, if she did not believe that Laurie believed it.

“Doctor, do you mind if I ask you something? Do you think I made mistakes? Was there a pattern there that I missed? Was there something more I should have done, if I’d been a better mom?”

The doctor hesitated for just a moment. On the wall above her, two of the African masks howled. “No, Laurie. I don’t think you did anything wrong at all. Honestly, I think you need to stop beating yourself up. If there was a pattern there, if there was a way to predict Jacob was heading for trouble, I don’t see how any parent could have recognized it. Not based on what you’ve told me so far. A lot of kids have the sort of issues Jacob had and it means nothing at all.”

“I did the best I could.”

“You did fine, Laurie. Don’t do that to yourself. Andy’s not wrong: what you’ve described so far? You did what any mother would have done. You did the best you could for your child. That’s all anyone can ask.”

Laurie held her head up, but there was a brittleness about her. It was like watching tiny threadlike cracks begin to spread and craze over her. Dr. Vogel seemed to perceive this fragile quality too, but she could not have known how entirely new it was. How changed Laurie already was. You had to really know Laurie and cherish her to appreciate what was happening. Once, my wife read so constantly that she would hold a book in her left hand while she brushed her teeth with the right; now, she never picked up a book, she could not muster the concentration or even the interest. Before, she had this way of focusing on whomever she spoke to, so that you felt you were the most impossibly captivating person in the room; now, her eyes wandered and she seemed not to be in the room herself. Her clothes, her hair, her makeup all were a bit wrong, a bit mismatched and sloppy. The quality that had always made her shine-a youthful, eager optimism-had begun to fade. But of course you had to know her Before in order to see what Laurie had lost. I was the only one in the room who understood what was happening to her.

Still, she was nowhere near surrender. “I did the best I could,” she announced with a sudden, unconvincing resolve.

“Laurie, tell me about Jacob now. What is he like?”

“Hm.” She smiled at the thought of him. “He’s very smart. Very funny, very charming. Handsome.” She actually blushed a little at the word handsome. Mother-love is love, after all. “He’s into computers, he loves gadgets, video games, music. He reads a lot.”

“Any problems with temper or violence?”

“No.”

“You’ve been telling us Jacob had issues with violence when he was a preschooler.”

“It stopped as soon as he got to kindergarten.”

“I’m just wondering if you still have any concerns about it. Does he still behave in any way that disturbs or worries you?”

“She already said no, Doctor.”

“Well, I want to explore it a little further.”

“It’s okay, Andy. No, Jacob’s never violent anymore. I almost wish he would act out more. He can be very hard to communicate with. He’s hard to read. He doesn’t talk a lot. He broods. He’s very introverted. Not just shy; I mean he introverts his feelings, his energy is all directed inward. He’s very remote, very guarded. He smolders. But no, he’s not violent.”

“Does he have other ways to express himself? Music, friends, sports, clubs, whatever?”

“No. He’s not much of a joiner. And he only has a few friends. Derek, a couple of others.”

“Girlfriends?”

“No, he’s too young for that.”

“Is he?”

“Isn’t he?”

The doctor shrugged.

“Anyway, he’s not mean. He can be very critical, caustic, sarcastic. He’s cynical. Fourteen years old and he’s already cynical! He hasn’t experienced enough to be cynical, has he? He hasn’t earned it. Maybe it’s just a pose. It’s how kids are today. Arch, ironic.”

“Those sound like unpleasant qualities.”

“Do they? I don’t mean them to. Jacob’s just complicated, I think. He’s moody. You know, he likes to be the angry boy, the ‘nobody fucking understands me’ boy.”

This was too much.

I snapped, “Laurie, come on, that’s every teenager, the angry boy, the ‘nobody fucking understands me’ boy. Come on! What you’ve just described is every adolescent on earth. It’s not a kid; it’s a bar code.”

“Maybe.” Laurie bowed her head. “I don’t know. I always thought maybe Jacob should see a shrink.”

“You’ve never said he should see a shrink!”

“I didn’t say I said it. I said I wondered if it was the right thing to do, just so he would have someone to talk to.”

Dr. Vogel growled, “Andy.”

“Well, I can’t just sit here!”

“Try. We’re here to listen to each other, to support each other, not argue.”

“Look,” I said, exasperated, “enough is enough. The whole presumption of this conversation is that Jacob has something to answer for, to explain. It’s just not true. A horrible thing happened, all right? Horrible. But it’s not our fault. It’s certainly not Jake’s fault. You know, I’m sitting here and I’m listening, and I’m thinking, What the hell are we talking about? Jacob had nothing to do with Ben Rifkin getting killed, nothing, but we’re all sitting here talking about Jake as if he’s some kind of freak or monster or something. He’s not. He’s just an ordinary kid. He has his flaws like every other kid, but he had nothing to do with this. I’m sorry, but somebody has to stand up for Jacob here.”

Dr. Vogel: “Andy, looking back, what do you think about all those kids who got hurt around Jacob? All the kids falling off playground structures and crashing bicycles? Was it all just bad luck? Coincidence? How do you think about it?”

“Jacob had a lot of energy; he played too rough. I acknowledge that. It’s something we dealt with when he was a kid. But that’s all it was. I mean, this all happened before Jake got to kindergarten. Kindergarten!”

“And the anger? You don’t think Jacob has an issue with anger?”

“No, I don’t. People get angry. It’s not an issue.”

“There’s a report here from Jacob’s file that he punched a hole in the wall in his bedroom. You had to call a plasterer. This was just last fall. Is that true?”

“Yes, but-how did you get that?”

“Jonathan.”

“That was for Jacob’s legal defense only!”

“That’s what we’re doing here, preparing his defense. Is it true? Did he punch a hole in the wall?”

“Yes. So what?”

“People don’t generally punch holes in walls, do they?”

“Sometimes they do, actually.”

“Do you?”

Deep breath. “No.”

“Laurie thinks you may have a blind spot about the possibility of Jacob being… violent. What do you think of that?”

“She thinks I’m in denial.”

“Are you?”

I shook my head in a stubborn, melancholy way, like a horse swaying its head in a narrow stall. “No. Just the opposite. I’m hyperalert to these things; I’m hyperaware. I mean, you know my background. My whole life-” Deep breath. “Lookit, you’re always concerned when kids get hurt; even if it’s an accident, you never want to see something like that. And you’re always concerned when your own kid behaves in ways that are… disturbing. So yes, I was aware of these things, I was concerned. But I knew Jacob, I knew my kid, and I loved him and I believed in him. And I still do. I’m sticking with him.”