I’m excused? As the meaning of the judge’s words sank in, it was all Jane could do not to leap up, dash from the witness box, race out the door, run home, and dive under her comforter. Three-thirty in the afternoon was too early for a glass of wine, but she was spent and exhausted. She’d awakened every hour on the hour the night before, taunted by the glowing green numbers of her alarm clock, terrified of being late, her restive dreams full of winding dead-end corridors and unopenable doors, of unfindable addresses and incorrect clocks. But she’d promised McCusker she’d meet him in the DA’s courthouse office after her testimony, and then needed to get back to Channel 2 and Fiola.
Home wasn’t an option.
She left the courtroom, trying not to run, and hustled past the burly court officers, ignoring the stares from the still-silent audience, their curiosity so piercing she could almost feel it against her back.
Once in the clear, thankful at hearing the door shut behind her, she paused for a moment in the silence of the frescoed hallway. And then with a lifting heart, she realized. I’m done. This is over. Say no more? She wouldn’t have to.
Allowing herself a brief smile of relief, Jane trotted down the wide staircase to the lobby. Welcoming the caffeine, she grabbed a sludgy but convenient courthouse coffee from the weird guy at the snack bar. She wondered what happened after she left the courtroom. Why had Hix arrived? And who was the earringed Ms. Obele—some kind of legal lookout?
She’d ask McCusker for the deets. Least he could do, after all this, was give her the scoop.
Coffee in hand, Jane trudged back up the curved marble staircase to the second floor, lamenting her too-high heels, the pressure of the witness box, and the loss of her day. But she’d gotten a reprieve from having to rat out a criminal. That part of her life was finished. She was never going to divulge another word to law enforcement again. Except to Jake, of course.
Unlike in her dream, she easily found the door marked “District Attorney,” which in real life had a doorknob, and entered the office. Empty. Empty reception area, empty couch, three empty chairs, empty reception desk. Fine. She’d wait.
Plopping onto the couch, muscles deflating, she pulled out her phone. Maybe call Jake? And certainly Fiola, see what the plans were to interview Tosca. That part of her life seemed so easy, suddenly, so risk-free.
But not, of course, for Tosca. It all depended on whether you were the questioner or the questioned. She let out a breath, stared at the blank wall, realized that for the first time in eight hours she wasn’t quaking with apprehension.
She could close her eyes, just for a moment.
“Jane?”
McCusker. She bolted to her feet. Had she been asleep? Didn’t matter. “Hey, Frank. How’d it go?” Reached for her coffee, took a sip. Still hot, so maybe she hadn’t been asleep.
“It’s complicated,” McCusker said, beckoning her to follow him. “We can talk in my office.”
She shadowed him down a narrow hall that smelled of old paper and older coffee grounds. The crackling overhead fluorescents only highlighted the grunge. Inside McCusker’s office, stacks of file folders lined the yellowed walls. She surveyed the place, a cell-sized cubicle, one four-paned window curtained with forlorn translucent nylon.
“Taxpayer dollars,” he said, one hand waving to encompass the shabbiness. “At least you can’t do a story about how District Attorney Santora is overspending on office décor.” He pulled a manila file folder from his shiny black briefcase, opened it, pulled out a photograph. Didn’t show it to her.
“Listen, Jane,” he went on. “Thanks for taking the stand this morning. You did us a solid. But, you’re sure about who you saw driving that car?”
“Yeah,” she said. The only visitor chair in the room was stacked with files. Not that she wanted to sit. She was leaving, soon as she could. “He was—”
“It was nine A.M.,” McCusker interrupted, then leaned back against the edge of his desk. “The sun was glary, there was heavy traffic, lots of distractions, you had to look through two car windows. Yours and his. It all occurred very quickly. Eyewitness identification is notoriously tricky. You’re absolutely sure?”
“No question.” And there wasn’t any question. As she’d scrutinized the courtroom audience, she’d held that image of the driver in her imagination. No one matched. She’d know the driver if she saw him. And she hadn’t seen him in court. “I’m a reporter. This is what I do.”
McCusker looked at the photo in his hand, turned it toward her, held it up between his thumb and forefinger.
“This is the person who confessed,” he said.
Baby-face kid.
“No way.” Jane shook her head. “Never saw that guy in my life. Well, until today, when I saw him in the audience. He was the only person not looking at me. Who is he, anyway? And, listen, Frank, can I just say? The man I saw was middle-aged, white, widow’s peak—”
“Don’t—” McCusker tried to interrupt.
“Pointy cheekbones, thin lips,” she finished before he could stop her again. She’d braved the stupid identification hearing, and it had resulted in a nonidentification identification. She didn’t see the actual driver in the audience, didn’t recognize the kid who confessed, so now she could go home.
The ADA stared at her, still holding up the photo.
“You sure?” he said.
“How many times do you want me to reassure you? I’m a very reliable witness.” Shut up, Jane.
“Tell me about that other accident.” He slid the photo back into the file, slid the file back into his briefcase. “The later one. On Melnea Cass. Did you happen to see that one, too?”
McCusker’s desk phone buzzed. “Excuse me,” he said, and turned, facing the wall as he talked.
Thank goodness. Jane brushed her palms across her cheeks, smoothed her hair behind her ears. She needed a shower, and a nap, and then a glass of wine. Maybe a back rub, or whatever else Jake might have in mind for tonight’s entertainment. What she did not need was another dilemma, another decision about where reporters drew the line at giving information.
Had she seen the second accident? Well, she had, in a way. The aftermath. On tape. And Channel 2 still had the raw video of it. But to get it, the DA would have to subpoena it, and the station would fight it, as they always fought subpoenas. Whatever video didn’t get on the air was never shared with anyone, even law enforcement, without a subpoena. To circumvent such controversies, every station she’d worked for simply destroyed the raw video, erased the tape, or deleted the digital file. Or said they deleted it.
So if she had seen it, and the video was gone, what was the point of saying so? And she hadn’t seen the actual accident. She tried to take another sip of coffee, but her paper cup was empty.
McCusker hung up the phone. He still looked impeccable, tie immaculate, even after the harrowing—for Jane—day in court. “Jane? Did you see that one, too?”
“I didn’t see the accident happen,” she said. That was true.
“I’m sure you didn’t.” McCusker aligned a few yellow pencils on his glass-topped desk, putting all the erasers in an even row. “Good answer. But you know perfectly well what I’m asking. Nevertheless. Tell your station to expect a subpoena.”
Jane shrugged, smiling, weary. “Above my pay grade,” she said.
She tossed her empty coffee cup into a black metal wastebasket, where it landed with a soft thud. Now it was her turn to ask questions. She would check the court records, the docket file containing all the official reports and maybe even evidence, and make copies of everything the moment she finished here. But might as well get the scoop firsthand.
“By the way, who is the guy who ‘confessed’?” she asked. “Did he own the Cadillac? Did he confess to the second hit-and-run, too?”
“It’s complicated.” McCusker sat behind his desk, picked up one of the pencils, rolled the others into a drawer. “That was part of what the judge and I were discussing. Why I was delayed. Why she sealed the court records.” He pointed the pencil at her. “But we’ll find the bad guy.”
“Sealed? Why?” Jane was so close to the door, and almost home free, but she couldn’t help it—once she was onto a story, she had to know how it ended. Getting court records sealed was a difficult burden. A judge had to be convinced there was a threat, or some crucially private information that needed to be concealed. That keeping the records secret outweighed the public’s right to know. “Will you at least tell me—”
“We’ll be in touch,” McCusker said. “All I can say.”
“Great,” Jane said. You owe me, she didn’t say. She put her hand on the doorknob.
“And I’ll let you know when your next court appearance is,” McCusker said.
He didn’t even try to hide his smirk. She took her hand off the knob, faced him square-on.
“What ‘next court appearance’?”
“Yours,” the DA said. “When we find the real driver. Because, Jane? You’re the only one who saw him.”
“But—”
“You said it yourself, Jane. You’re a very reliable witness.”