Page 87 of Witness 8

He couldn’t see it. Not yet. I had to make him hear it.

That meant throwing Chase off balance.

‘Detective Chase, is there anything about your investigation that you would do differently?’

This is an open question. Anything can happen. This is the exact opposite of what lawyers are trained to do in cross-examination. They want to keep their questions tight. Yes or no answers. Control the witness. Control their testimony. But I knew the answer Chase would give.

His eyes blazed wide when he heard the question. Not one he was expecting. He thought for a second, and then gave the only answer he could and put a little sugar on top.

‘No, not at all. I believe our investigation led us to the truth. That your client murdered Margaret Blakemore.’

Castro winced and then smiled at his assistant DAs, like he was watching me get pummeled by a pro fighter. I was expecting the hit. Chase was an experienced witness. And cops who are used to testifying know that when they are given the ball, and they have an opening to make a three-point shot – they’ll throw it through the basket every damn time.

The hit was worth taking. Chase had gotten his three points. But the game was just beginning.

I cleared my throat, audibly, looked at the jury and said, ‘Let’s talk about this investigation, and the evidence your officers missed, and the evidence you’re keeping from this jury . . .’

38

Ruby

The house was quiet. It had been like this for the last twenty minutes as Ruby worked on her laptop, moving money from account to account.

No pings, whizzes or pops from Tomas’s iPad games. No music. No sound of his feet on the floor above. It wasn’t a calm silence. The air was filled with a heavy stillness. A tension that Ruby had to break.

Tomas could not tell his parents that Ruby had been mad at him. They trusted her. And nothing, absolutelynothingcould be allowed to damage that faith. Not when she was so close to being free, and resolving the problem that had threatened her world and consumed her thoughts for months.

She breathed out, poured some orange juice into a glass. Then, using two spoons, Ruby crushed a Xanax into a fine powder and tipped it into the glass. A spoonful of NyQuil and another of Benadryl. And then Ruby stirred up the mixture. The color of the orange juice dulled into a muddy yellow. She washed the spoon, picked up the glass of OJ, took a chocolate-chip cookie from the jar in the cupboard and went upstairs.

Tomas’s door was closed. She put her ear to the door and listened.

At first, she heard nothing, and then sniffing.

Ruby cradled the cookie in her wrist, opened the door and stepped inside. White walls, white shelves, a pop of bright blueon one wall behind Tomas’s bed, and toys neatly arranged everywhere. Tomas was curled up on his pillow. A small, dark, damp stain next to his head where he had been crying. His back was to Ruby, and he tensed as she walked in.

‘Tomas, I’m so sorry. My mom is sick. I just got word she is going to have to go into a special home to be looked after by nurses and doctors. That’s what I was doing on my laptop when you came into the kitchen. I’m sorry I yelled,’ she said, softly.

‘You said a bad word. A real bad one.’

‘I know, sweetie. I was upset. I won’t ever use that word again.’

As Ruby slowly walked round the bed to face Tomas, he screwed his chin into the pillow. He didn’t want to look at her. Sometimes, with children, if they can’t see something bad in their mind, it isn’t there. It just goes away.

Rubeeeeeeee.

The buzzing began in her head.

Her foot stood on something. She looked down. Saw it was Tomas’s skipping rope. It was a thick, white woven fiber rope with wooden handles painted red. Some of the paint had chipped off.

Rubeeeeeeeeeeeee.

She shook her head.

‘I brought you a drink, and a cookie. To say sorry.’

His little fists grabbed the pillow, twisted it, trying to move the whole thing over his head.

‘Come on, little buddy. I know you’re hungry. You must be thirsty too. Drink this juice all up and you can have this cookie.’