Joseph Teller - Overkill

The problem for Katherine Darcy, on the other hand, was that Jaywalker knew all that stuff, too. So he always- always -made it a habit to prepare his witnesses for the question. However, in the ten minutes the judge had allowed him this morning, he’d neglected to remind Julie Estrada to expect it. Was there any chance she might remember his advice from weeks or months ago? He bit deeply into the inside of his cheek as he listened to Darcy repeat the question.

DARCY: Would you lie for your twin brother?

JULIE: You know, I’m pretty sure I would, if it came down to that. But so far, I haven’t had to find out. Everything I’ve said is a hundred percent true, and even you know that.

Jaywalker had to hold on to the arms of his chair to keep from jumping to his feet and applauding. He couldn’t have come up with as good an answer himself. Though evidently he had, some weeks ago.

Darcy understandably refused to quit on that note. She asked five or six more questions, but none of them, or the answers they drew, amounted to much. When finally she succeeded in scoring a tiny point by getting Julie to admit she couldn’t remember the exact time frame of the bed-wetting, she quit. That said, Jaywalker had to admire her for her discipline. While he’d burned her on the lying-for-your-twin-brother business, Darcy had continued to steer clear of the even more dangerous territory Jaywalker had hoped she would stumble into. All she would have had to do was ask Julie the same innocuous question she’d put to Carmen-whether she herself had ever witnessed anyone in a Raiders jacket chasing Jeremy-and Julie could have answered, “No, but they chased me last week!” And even if Harold Wexler had let only the first word of the answer stand, Jaywalker’s Jewish half would have smiled and said Dayenu.

It would have been enough.

“Call your next witness,” said the judge.

Jaywalker stood, let a second or two click off the clock, and said, “The defense calls Jeremy Estrada.”

Even though the jurors had known for a full week that Jeremy would be taking the stand, every one of them locked eyes on the young man as he rose from his seat and began making his way toward the witness stand. There are few moments in a trial that rival the drama that accompanies the announcement that the defendant is about to testify. The delivering of the verdict, certainly, and perhaps the summations of the lawyers. But short of those events, which in this case wouldn’t take place until the following week, Jeremy Estrada taking his place in the witness box was unquestionably the high point of the trial.

From an early age, we’re conditioned to resolve disputes by hearing from both sides. Try to visualize a scene in which a mother hears a crash coming from the kitchen. Upon investigating, she finds the cookie jar in a hundred pieces on the floor, her two young sons standing equidistant from its remains.

“Did you do that?” she asks one of them.

“No,” he says. “Not me.”

Turning to the other one, she asks, “Did you?”

Son number two decides to invoke his privilege against self-incrimination, and says nothing. Though only four, he’s read up on constitutional law and knows that his silence may not be used against him.

So who broke the cookie jar?

If you say the second boy, the one who refused to deny it, you’re being nothing more nor less than human. We’ve grown to expect that someone accused of a transgression will either admit his guilt or deny it, and that-and here’s the interesting part- for some reason we think that simply by listening to him we’ll be able to judge whether or not he’s telling the truth .

So Jeremy taking the stand in his own defense promised to be a defining moment for the jurors, most likely the defining moment. They would listen to him as he tried to explain away the evidence that had built up against him over the past five days, and from his answers they would know whether to walk him out the door or ship him off to state prison for the next twenty-five years or more of his life.

Telling the truth or lying.

Guilty or not guilty.

Black or white.

They could forget about reasonable doubt, ignore which side had the burden of proof, and stop looking for shades of gray. By putting the defendant on the stand, Jaywalker was making it easy for them. Once they heard from Jeremy, they would know .

Jaywalker, too, knew that was what they were thinking, of course. But long ago, perhaps as long ago as he’d set eyes on Jeremy and heard him say that when he’d shot Victor Quinones he’d been defending himself, he’d known it was a strategy he was going to have to adopt. Carmen hadn’t been there at the fight and the shooting. Frankie the Barber had come all the way from Puerto Rico on his own dime, but he hadn’t been there, either. Nor had Julie, with all her unexpected eloquence. Miranda had been there, but by writing out a statement for the detectives, she’d poisoned herself as a witness.

Which left only Jeremy.

So for better or worse, it would be left to him to tell his story, and it would indeed come down to how persuasively he could and would tell it. And now, as he placed one hand on a Bible, raised the other and swore to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, Jaywalker held his breath and prayed for the best. The hundreds of hours of prying Jeremy’s story from him were a thing of the past. The mock examinations and cross-examinations were history. Even Jaywalker’s last piece of advice delivered an hour ago would be forgotten. “Details,” he’d told Jeremy. “We need details. And relax. You can’t hurt yourself up there. You can only help yourself.” It was a lie, of course. But to Jaywalker it was no worse a lie than a doctor prescribing a placebo for his patient and saying, “Take one of these for your headaches, but only one, because they’re extra-strength.”

Jaywalker started off gently with Jeremy, asking him short, easy questions that wouldn’t require any real thought on his part. He wanted to give him a chance to warm up, to get his voice going, to get a feel for the process. He established that Jeremy was nineteen now, but had been barely seventeen two years ago; that he’d been living with his mother and twin sister; and that he’d recently transferred to a new high school, Park East, at 105th Street, which he walked to and from.

JAYWALKER: How were you doing in school?

JEREMY: Not so good.

JAYWALKER: Why is that?

JEREMY: I have a learning disability. I’m not good with numbers or writing. Also comprehension. School was actually pretty hard for me.

JAYWALKER: Did you hear Ms. Darcy asking your mother yesterday about your attendance?

JEREMY: Yes, sir.

JAYWALKER: And is it true that at times your attendance was poor?

JEREMY: Yes.

JAYWALKER: Even before that May?

JEREMY: Yes.

JAYWALKER: In addition to going to school, were you doing anything else?

JEREMY: Yes, I was working.

JAYWALKER: How old were you when you first started working?

JEREMY: I’d just turned fourteen.

Jaywalker had Jeremy describe the jobs he’d held up to that time. He’d worked part-time after school and full-time each summer. The jobs had been in the neighborhood, and he’d been paid in cash, off the books.

The preliminaries having been dispensed with, it was time to introduce the jurors to Miranda.

JAYWALKER: Did there come a time that May, Jeremy, when you met somebody?

JEREMY: Yes, I met this young lady.

JAYWALKER: Tell us how that happened.

JEREMY: Well, as I was walking to school one morning along Third Avenue, I passed this flower shop. And I saw her right inside. And even though neither of us said anything, we, like, made eye contact, you know?