Order in the Court (8 page)

“I won’t prescribe any for you today. I think we need to start by forming good habits of dealing with your episodes, find tools that you can use to help you move past them. You seem to have some already that are working for you, but we might be able to do better, with practice. But if they continue for too long, or worsen in severity, medication may be an option.”

She paused and folded her hands in her lap, looking at me with an open expression. “That’s something we can discuss when you’re ready, and not a minute before. You might never need any. But you might, and I want you to agree to be open to that option. There’s nothing weak about accepting help when you need it.”

“Okay,” I agreed. “I’ll stipulate to that.”

Dr. Wagner smiled. “Then we’ve gotten off on the right foot.”

“I SAW
his face,” I repeated desperately, needing the jury to
know
that.

Kovač took pause, clearly not expecting that answer. “You don’t say that in your official statement,” she said, returning to her table in order to retrieve her copy of my sworn statement. “In your initial statement to the police, you say… ‘
I saw him from the side, he was wearing a baseball cap, Cincinnati Reds
.’ You don’t mention him turning around.”

“I was in shock when I made that statement,” I protested. “I was taken from the scene by ambulance. They took my statement in the hospital!”

“Wouldn’t your statement be more accurate immediately following the incident, not days later when you had had time to fabricate facts in order to fit your theories?” Kovač asked, her voice going up at least an octave in her excitement.

“Objection!” Haywood stood up, gestured wildly at Kovač. “Badgering the witness, implying perjury—”

“I agree,” said Judge Gillis, frowning at Kovač. “That was an inappropriate insinuation, Mrs. Kovač. The jury will disregard the last statement made by the defense.”

My face felt very hot. I wasn’t sure whether it was from embarrassment or anger, but either way, I could tell by the heat and the pounding of my heartbeat in my temples and cheeks that my face was red with one or the other.

“In your initial statement at the hospital,” Kovač continued, as if there had been no interruption, “you say that you did not recognize the killer, is that correct?”

A murmur ran through the crowd. Again, I immediately shook my head. “No, that is incorrect. I did not identify the killer in my initial statement, but you’ll see that I
do
say that I recognized him.”

“Ah yes, I see,” Kovač said dryly. “You said, ‘
I think I know him
.’ Nowhere did you mention the defendant’s name, his relation to Katherine Barrett, or even a detailed description. You said, ‘
He was white. Brown hair, I think. He was tall
.’ It says you
thought
he had brown hair and that you
thought
you knew him from somewhere. Now, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, does that sound like the confident voice on the stand today?” The jury tittered at being directly addressed during my questioning, and I could almost see the gears turning in the heads of some of the jury members. “I think not.”

“Objection,” Haywood said, but there was no vehemence in his voice. “Was there a question in there somewhere?” He looked like a frayed knot, coming apart at both ends.

“My apologies, Your Honor. I’ll make my questions more explicit,” Kovač said without allowing the judge to comment. She turned again to me. There was a twinkle of malice in her brown eyes when she asked, “When were you first told to implicate the defendant in these murders?”

The courtroom exploded into noise.

Haywood jumped to his feet immediately and began to accuse Kovač of making ridiculous allegations against me, the prosecution, and the police; my mother began to yell from the audience about badgering and my rights as a witness, her voice rising above the crowd’s loud reaction of dozens of voices excitedly adding their own input; photographers snapped hundreds of shots of the courtroom in disarray; the judge banged his gavel ineffectually for at least a full minute, adding his booming voice to the noise, yelling, “Order! I will have order in my courtroom!”

As the audience settled, Haywood remained standing.

“Your Honor,” he said breathlessly, having yelled to have his voice heard above the din. “You can’t
possibly
allow—”

“No, I can’t.” Haywood seemed to deflate with gratefulness. “I’m throwing out your last question, Mrs. Kovač,” Judge Gillis said disapprovingly, “for being a leading question and an accusation with no grounds. If you have any further questions for the witness, ask them now, before I ask you to take your seat.” He sounded just about ready to do so. I was on the edge of my seat, nervous energy pressing up against my sternum.

“Excuse me, Your Honor,” I said politely, craning my neck to look up at him. Nobody said a word. “May I answer the question?”

The judge leaned down from his position above me, a deep crease forming between his eyes. He looked nothing like Brandon Reyes. “Why on earth would you want to do that?” he asked, and I answered honestly.

“I wouldn’t want anyone, most certainly not the jury, to think that I have anything to hide. Since Mrs. Kovač has put the idea in their heads, I feel as if I have a right to defend myself against it. If the question gets thrown out without an answer, it could create doubt. So may I answer the question, please?”

“All right. The witness is prepared to answer the question.” I noticed that Haywood looked more ill than usual. I hoped he would feel better once I’d answered. “Mrs. Kovač, repose your question to the witness,” Judge Gillis said but held up his finger for a moment of continued silence. “But make sure you rephrase it as a
question
, not an accusation.”

Kovač cleared her throat and approached me again. “Were you at any time told to implicate the defendant in these murders by someone of authority?” She looked to the judge, who inclined his head as if to approve of the question. Kovač looked annoyed when she turned back to me to hear my answer.

I chose my words carefully, knowing that this was the time I could not make even the slightest mistake. I had an answer prepared in my mind, set up like an argument, like a persuasive essay, like a speech. I could do this with decorum and poise, without crying, without raising my voice. I could do it. And I did.

“I was not, nor have I ever been, told to make a statement that was untrue in this courtroom or in any documentation regarding this case. I was not asked to identify the defendant from a lineup of similar-looking men or from a photograph. I was not asked if it were possible the defendant was the killer before I made my statement to the police. The idea was not implanted in me by any artificial means. I was not coerced, paid, intimidated, or threatened into identifying Dustin Adams as the man who, on June twenty-seventh, used a sawed-off shotgun to murder his sister Kate, our two friends Jessa and Erica, and Jacob Hastings, who was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

I took a deep breath, having said all this fairly quickly. I did not want to be cut off. I continued before Kovač could get a word in edgewise, saying, “I am here, under oath, having sworn on a Bible, telling you that I
saw
Dustin Adams shoot Jacob Hastings in the head, after hearing the shots that killed three people whom I loved. My only motive in testifying today is to take a killer off the streets, and have the man who took Kate and Jessa and Ricky from me punished for what he’s done.”

“Why, then, did you wait to identify him as the killer until the burial?” Kovač asked when it was clear my little rant was finished. “Why not tell the police on the night of the murders?”

“I hadn’t seen him in years!” I said, and I was still a little fired up, so I continued, “I
knew
that I knew him from somewhere, and I told the police that, but I just couldn’t put a name to the face until I saw him again. When I saw him at the burial, it all clicked, and I knew it was him I’d seen, and I knew who he was.” I swallowed past the lump that had formed in my throat and blinked away tears. “I knew who he was and what he’d done.” I wiped at my eyes with Haywood’s white handkerchief, hating, and not for the first time, that I cried when I was angry.

“You didn’t know the name of your best friend’s brother?” Kovač asked, but it was too late for her defense. “Someone you’d known since childhood?”

I felt defensive, but tried not to let it show. “I knew his name as a separate thing. I knew it as Kate’s brother’s name. I just didn’t put the two together right away, that Kate’s brother was also her killer.”

Would the jury understand? I worried. Would they know what I was talking about, that feeling of simultaneously
knowing
and
not knowing
? And then I did the thing I promised I wouldn’t do. I pulled the card from the deck, and I used it.

“I was traumatized.”

“HOW HAVE
you been, Corey? Have you had any panic attacks since our last meeting, any new nightmares?” Dr. Wagner reclined in her comfortable chair across from me, her body relaxed over the cushioned arm, her notes balanced on its edge. I followed her lead and allowed myself to sit comfortably, uncrossing my legs and tucking one foot underneath me instead.

“No panic attacks at all,” I answered, propping my chin on my fist. The room was bright and smelled lovely. Like fresh flowers, maybe, not like Pine-Sol at all. I took a few deep breaths of the calming scent. “A couple of nightmares, the same as usual, but none that woke my parents up, which is an improvement.” I forced a smile for Dr. Wagner’s benefit. “No screaming, yay.”

Those dreams that woke my parents were either
screamers
or
hitters
, which were exactly what they sounded like. To wake my mother it took a screaming dream, one where the screaming started before I woke myself up and could control the impulse to call out. Hitting dreams usually involved me flailing about until I hit the wall, or knocked over my lamp, or otherwise banged around until I woke up covered in fresh bruises. Either kind could wake my father, since he slept so lightly. The dreams that didn’t wake my parents were the kind where I was paralyzed, so afraid that I couldn’t scream or fight back. When I woke, it was usually with a heavy feeling in my limbs, like I was weighed down, and I’d have to claw my way into wakefulness to arrive gasping, covered in sweat, but lying still as a statue in my bed.

I didn’t tell Dr. Wagner about the different kinds of dreams. I always felt a little better after a good screamer, though it was the kind most likely to leave the family tired around the breakfast table the next morning, with my mother muttering angrily into her Froot Loops. When I hadn’t had one of those in a while, my mother always seemed happier. When I hadn’t had a panic attack in public, or woken her up by screaming, she could pretend that everything was back to normal.

“That’s good,” Dr. Wagner said. “How are you feeling about the trial?”

“I try not to think about it, to be honest. Midterms are coming up; I can’t afford to worry too much right now.” My thumb found its way into my mouth, and I bit unhelpfully at a hangnail. “Same old same old.”

“Have you been meeting with the lawyer?”

I sighed exasperatedly. “Only every week. My mother insists. I don’t know why, with the trial being so far away. What help is practicing my testimony now? I don’t get it.”

“I’m sure your mother is looking out for your best interests. But if it interferes with your schoolwork, or you really think it isn’t a beneficial exercise, you have the right to say no. Don’t be afraid to stand up for yourself, even to your mother.”

“I know I can,” I said. “I’m just humoring her.”

“How was support group? Did you find it useful at all?”

Talking to Dr. Wagner was a bit like talking to an overly supportive friend. This was our third meeting, and while I trusted her judgment, she often handed me advice I felt was patronizing. The support group had been her idea, her suggestion, and my mother had latched on to it like a lifeline.

So I’d gone. Really, I didn’t want to cause a fuss when I didn’t need to. Constantly making up for the disruption in our lives that was my fault, my shortcomings, my impeding of her perfect life; if I humored her, went to the meetings with Haywood, went to the support group, pretended like it was helping, at least I didn’t feel like I was letting her down.

I must have gotten that twist to my mouth, the one where I’m about to say something sarcastic as a weapon, because Dr. Wagner put her hands up as if to show she meant no harm.

“It was okay.” I didn’t elaborate. “I’m going again this week.”

“That’s good, that’s good.” Dr. Wagner made a note and then veered to another topic, sensing my unease. “How has school been going? Have you made any friends?”

“Two, actually. Quite by accident,” I said, nearly laughing. “They’re all right. One of them knows about me, the other doesn’t. I think it’s better if people don’t know.”

“You don’t want them to judge you based on your experience.”

I nodded sadly. “Exactly. Everyone back home knows me as
that girl
, the murder-girl, and I don’t want that to become my identity. I’m more than just that girl. My friends are more than just murder victims. They were people. Everyone seems to forget who they were and just talk about what they are, now.” I sighed. “I helped Jessa’s parents clean out her room after our last meeting.”

“How did that go?” Dr. Wagner asked curiously, her pen tapping away on the edge of her file like she did when she was excited about a development.

“It was painful, to be honest.” I tasted blood, pulled my thumb out of my mouth. I’d ripped the hangnail deep, caused it to bleed. “It brought back a lot of memories, a lot of feelings I wasn’t really ready to confront. Her little sister is moving into her bedroom. She’s so excited about it, but I can’t help but feel like she’s taking over, you know? Choosing which clothes of Jessa’s she wants to keep, which books, which furniture. It’s like they’re erasing her.”