James Patterson - Murder House

“One child was hit in the eye, wasn’t he?”

Noah nods but doesn’t speak.

“That boy was nine, ” says Akers. “He had to have two surgeries to repair the damage, isn’t that true?”

Noah’s eyes are fixed on the floor now. “That happened, yes.”

“Yes, that ‘happened.’ That ‘happened’ because you shot him with a BB gun, correct?”

Noah doesn’t speak. Still staring at the floor.

“Is that a yes, Mr. Walker?”

“I didn’t shoot him,” Noah says, almost in a whisper, though the microphone gives it sufficient volume.

“No? You didn’t shoot that boy? You were wrongfully accused then, too, is that it?”

“I didn’t shoot him.”

“I see. So when school officials said you did, they weren’t telling the truth, either, were they?”

Noah’s shoulders close in on him, like he’s trying to shelter himself from a storm. “I don’t want to talk about that anymore,” he says.

“Oh.” Akers lets out a chuckle. “Well, what do you wanna talk about? The Yankees’ chances in the postseason?”

That gets a roar from the spectators. I thought it was clever, too, but I’m watching Noah. His face is turning red. He’s practically curled up into a ball. Akers, if he’s half the trial lawyer he thinks he is, senses it, too.

By the time the laughter has subsided and the judge has gaveled the room to order, Akers has slowly approached Walker, a tiger stalking prey.

“You shot fifteen people that day, Mr. Walker.”

“I — no — I’m not going to — I don’t want—”

“But you claim the school officials lied.”

“I said I don’t—”

“Just like you claim a decorated police chief, Langdon James, lied.”

Noah shakes his head.

“Just like Detective Murphy lied.”

It’s clear now Noah’s not going to answer, and that seems to be fine with Akers. He’s watching — we’re all watching — a defendant smoldering on the witness stand, and Akers is hoping he’ll erupt.

“Just like Dio Cornwall lied. Just like Remy Handleman lied.”

Noah turns his head away, as if he’s done with this examination.

“All of them lied,” says Akers. “It’s a grand conspiracy, isn’t it, Mr. Walker? The whole world against you.”

Noah says something, but he’s turned away from the mike and it’s inaudible.

“Mr. Walker—”

“Yes!” Noah hisses, spinning around, nearly knocking over the microphone. Akers jumps back. The judge reacts, too. Several of the jurors recoil, seeing a new side of Noah Walker.

“Everyone’s lying! The chief, that detective, the prison snitch, Remy, who couldn’t tie his own shoes without help — they’re all lying! They set me up!”

Noah surges to his feet, sweeping his hand, this time knocking the microphone to the floor. “They all set me up! They framed me! They’re all liars!”

“Sit down, Mr. Walker, or I’ll have you restrained!” the judge commands. “Deputies?” he calls out, and quickly two sheriff’s deputies approach Noah.

When Noah doesn’t immediately take his seat, one of the deputies grabs his arm. He yanks it free. Both bailiffs reach for their batons, but Noah drops himself back into his chair. The judge calls for order and admonishes Noah. His face has lost all hope now; it’s distorted with bitterness.

But when he looks up, his expression breaks, the scowl changing to despair, and for the briefest of moments, I think he’s looking at me. Then I realize he’s looking past me. I glance over my shoulder and see the woman he was with when I arrested him — Paige, I think her name was. She’s mouthing something to him from across the courtroom, but I can’t make out what she’s saying.

I look back at Noah, who shakes his head and breaks eye contact.

“Your Honor, I have no further questions,” says Sebastian Akers.

The first day, Noah didn’t think much of it. It had been a long trial. There was a lot of information to review. It could just be the simple matter of plowing through all the material, wanting to be thorough.

The second day, he began to wonder. He had no experience with this kind of thing, so he tried not to think too much about it.

The third day of jury deliberations, he began to have hope. Somebody on that jury was doing some heavy thinking about his guilt. Don’t read too much into it, his lawyer advised him during a visit. A lot of people have lost a lot of bets trying to guess what a jury is thinking.

At a quarter after one on the fourth day of jury deliberations, Noah is summoned by the sheriff’s deputy. He is heading, as always, toward the side door of the county courthouse, reserved for prisoner transfers, but the transport vehicle slows a block from the courthouse. The crowd has swelled beyond the sidewalks into the street. There are blockades, but they are hopeless against the swarm of onlookers. The transport vehicle moves slowly, and people grudgingly open a path, shouting at the vehicle as it passes, some of them even slapping the hood or one of the side windows.

When the vehicle turns toward the transfer door, Noah sees the trucks from all the national media lined up, faces of reporters he’d seen on television before the trial began and with whom he’s now practically on a first-name basis, plus countless other reporters who couldn’t get inside the courtroom but are always here, every morning, ready to shoot video footage or snap his picture.

The thousands of locals are here for various reasons, geriatric trial-watchers, concerned citizens, people just interested in the spectacle of it all, friends or family of Melanie Phillips. From time to time in the courtroom or standing outside here by the prisoner transfer, he has seen people who vaguely resemble Melanie and wondered if they were cousins or aunts or uncles. Melanie had a big family, though Noah never met any of them. They were only together for two months before Melanie ended things.

He remembers that day well, the day Melanie broke up with him, her resolve, the firmness of her words. I’m sorry, but I’ve made my decision . That was it. She wouldn’t hear his protests. She just made the statement, a second time to be clear, and that was that. Noah always wondered if she’d discussed it with her friends or family ahead of time. He imagines someone advising her, It’s best to do it clean, just break it off, no long explanations or debate. It bothered him to think that others knew about their breakup before he did.

He lets these thoughts occupy him so he won’t think about what’s coming as he passes down a long corridor lined with armed deputies, as he enters the courtroom from the side and dozens of heads turn in his direction. The law enforcement presence in this room is also heavy; the wall space is occupied by sheriff’s deputies ready to keep order when the verdict is read.

And then it’s as if everything is under water, almost dreamlike. His lawyer says something to him, but Noah doesn’t really listen; he’s gone to another place now, readying himself for what’s about to come. Judge Barnett walks in and calls for the jury. The jurors file in and take their seats, one by one. You’re supposed to watch them as they come in, looking for clues — If they make eye contact, they’re going to acquit you; if they don’t, they’re going to convict . That never made sense to him, why you’d look for clues in the first place, when you’re about to find out in a few seconds.

Instead, he turns around and finds Paige in the fourth row by the aisle. She moves her head so they can see each other between the other spectators. She mouths the words I love you . He wants to stay there, looking at her, but his lawyer takes his arm and he gets to his feet for the reading of the verdict.