Silent Witness (36 page)

It was the first hint that he might do something short of expulsion. But the idea dismayed Jenny – she could see her tight-lipped mother, her choleric father bellowing with rage. The point of smoking dope was to get her away from all that, into the world of fantasy and sinuous music she concealed in her head. ‘Please,' she said. ‘They'd just yell at me. They wouldn't understand.'

He looked up at her. ‘
I
don't understand, Jenny Travis.'

There was a new intimacy to this, Jenny felt: Coach Robb talking to her like a person. She had always thought there was something attractive about him, but beneath the easy jokes, the cocksure manner of the once great Lake City athlete, he seemed remote. She had no sense of knowing him, and now would have to try. ‘Sometimes I want to escape,' she said. ‘It's like I don't fit, and I don't know why.'

He seemed to consider this, gazing at his desk with veiled eyes. As she watched him, part of Jenny was grateful; the other part, whose existence was a surprise to her, thought suddenly that his interest was a pose, beneath which he had no respect for her at all. And then he looked up with those clear blue eyes, seeming to see through her. ‘You
could
be somebody wonderful, Jenny. But you won't find that someone by smoking joints.'

They were still talking, Jenny thought. Hope and fear and confusion brought tears to her eyes. ‘
Please
,' she said. ‘You don't know what they'd be like . . .'

Coach Robb gave a shrug of helplessness. In a reluctant voice, he said, ‘Maybe I can counsel with you.' Pausing, he placed his hand over his eyes. ‘I'm going to need to think about it . . .'

She kept herself still, silent, afraid to do anything that might affect the balance, apprehensive that, even at six o'clock, someone else could walk in the office and see the joints on his desk. He seemed to struggle with himself. ‘I shouldn't say this,' he said softly, ‘but the fact that it's you makes it that much harder. People can't think I have favorites. But you've always been a favorite of mine.'

Something had changed between them, Jenny suddenly knew. She felt herself swallow. ‘You can't keep running away,' he told her. ‘Boys and drugs and all the rest. You know that, don't you?'

Jenny nodded. She would have nodded at anything he said.

Silent, he put the two joints back in the drawer. ‘All right,' he said slowly. ‘I'll help you.'

Jenny felt her own tremulous smile. ‘Thank you . . .'

As she stood, so did Coach Robb.

They looked at each other, Jenny in confusion, and then he opened up his arms. Hesitant, she went to him.

He felt strong, not slight like the boys who had made her feel nothing. ‘It's all right.' He held her tight now. ‘We'll get through it . . .'

When she drew back, looking at his face with gratitude, he shook his head with a funny half-smile. ‘Ah, Jenny . . .'

There was no mistaking the thickness in his voice. She felt the pit of her stomach clutch, and then he kissed her.

She did not resist this, or encourage it, but seemed to exist outside herself, caught in disbelief, fear, wonder. His tongue slipped into her mouth.

Jenny let him do this, imagining her parents' faces, afraid of pulling back from him, frozen by the two joints in his drawer. Then he leaned his forehead against hers. ‘Is this all right?' he asked.

She did not say yes or no. Kissing her forehead, Sam released her, walking to his door. As he did so, she realized that he had asked her to come to his office after practice, at a time when no one was here.

Still facing the desk, Jenny heard the click of his door lock.

Even before he leaned his body against the back of her, hands circling her waist, Jenny knew that he would touch her breasts.

Her eyes shut. He found her nipples through the thin cotton of her T-shirt, sending warnings to her brain, shivers to the core of her. His breath warmed the back of her neck.

The rest evolved from moment to moment, a dance she already knew, yet somehow stood outside of. The confident hands unsnapping the top of her jeans, fingers finding her wetness, his lack of hurry, the fact that she could have stopped him and yet dared not, even when he bent her over. As he entered her from behind, her hair, falling across her face, grazed his desk. She felt his thrusts, then his shudder, and wondered if the risk was part of his excitement.

Softly, calmly, Sam Robb murmured, ‘This can't be the last time, Jenny,' and she realized that he owned her.

Wondering if the account was true, Tony was shaken by its similarity, at least in certain particulars, to Sam's own story of his ‘seduction' by Marcie Calder. So that it was a moment before he asked, ‘Back then, did you ever tell
anyone
about this?'

Jenny folded her arms. ‘No.'

Tony hesitated. Even were he to discourage Jenny Travis, Stella could subpoena her, perhaps compel her to testify against her will. But unless he tried, her testimony – if allowed – could be lethal. And despite himself, Tony needed to hear everything. ‘There was one more time with him?' he asked.

‘Yes. At the Motel 6, about a mile from here.'

At least it wasn't in a car, Tony thought with bleak irony. ‘What happened?'

‘I went down on him. He held my head there until he was finished.'

Her body was rigid, and her uninflected voice spoke of hatred under tight control. ‘What you're telling me,' Tony said with care, ‘isn't pretty. But there's some distance between exploitation – even abuse – and murder.'

The first color showed in her cheeks. ‘I gave him what he asked for. What if I hadn't?'

‘I don't know.'

She stood, turning to the glass windows, watching the forms of other women. At length, she stood straighter, turning to face him again. ‘He wanted me twice,' she said. ‘The second time, he rolled me on my stomach across the bed. When I tried to get out from under him, he just went ahead and did it. He
hurt
me.' Her voice filled with contempt. ‘And then, when it was over, he
apologized
. “I'm not like that,” I remember him saying.'

Her eyes bored into Tony's now, demanding to know how he could represent this man. Evenly, Tony asked, ‘Did
what
, Jenny?'

She gave him a quick querying look, then angrily shook her head. ‘Not
that
,' she said. ‘He just made me feel cheap and dirty and exploited. Maybe, in
your
life, that's nothing.'

Tony was aware of his own jumbled emotions – fear of who Sam might truly be; the unwelcome question of what married life had been for Sue; the intuition that, in Jenny Travis, the unwillingness to differentiate between Tony and his client went deeper than anger at Sam, or dislike for lawyers. There was something as yet unspoken, and now Tony could guess what it was: in that moment, he felt deep compassion for Jenny Travis, anger that he, as Sam Robb's lawyer, must risk telling her what Stella had not – that the legal process, once entered, would slip beyond her control.

‘In
my
life,' he answered, ‘it's hardly nothing. But I'm representing a client. And in fairness to him, I have to point out how damaging your account can be, let alone how serious it is to suggest that you believe him capable of murder. Even on the basis of sexual coercion.' Tony kept his voice level; perhaps she could be made to see that coming forward was of limited value. ‘Because of that, I'm very sure that I could keep your testimony out of any murder trial – it's far more prejudicial to Sam than it is probative of murder.

‘That only leaves a school board hearing. But Sam's already under suspension. If it helps, I think I can assure you that he's never coming back to Lake City High School.'

Stubbornly, Jenny Travis shook her head. ‘You're sounding like a lawyer. But I was a victim, and so was Marcie Calder. I was quiet for six long years, and all it did was hurt me. I'm doing this for girls like Marcie, and I'm also doing it for
me
.'

There was no stopping her, Tony knew, without explaining the rest. Stifling his reluctance, Tony went on. ‘Then in fairness to Sam,
and
to you, I should tell you what any lawyer will be forced to ask. You
did
quit the track team, right?'

She gave a curt nod. ‘After the motel, sure. I couldn't even look at him.'

‘There are no witnesses to confirm your story, or to persuade me – as Sam's lawyer – that it's so. Granted that's always the problem with what you say Sam Robb did to you. But there's no one else to say, Jenny, that Sam didn't let you quit out of kindness, as he claims, instead of expelling you for drugs. Or that anything else you just told me is true. It's a classic “he said/she said” conflict, and those aren't easy to resolve.'

Jenny stared at him. ‘I knew that six years ago. That's why I kept my mouth shut, so that Marcie Calder could step into the same trap I did. Now I'm ready to put my word up against Sam Robb's.'

Part of Tony wished, for her sake, that this were as simple as she felt. But it was not. ‘Where that takes you,' he said finally, ‘is a battle of credibility –'

‘And Sam Robb's
credible
? After this?'

It was the crux of the matter, Tony knew. ‘It's a real problem,' he conceded. ‘In the end, Sam's lawyer will be forced to go after you. To try to suggest that because of who
you
are, there may be reason to doubt your word.'

Jenny's jaw tightened; for the first time, Tony was sure that the defensiveness he had seen was visceral, and very deep. ‘On what grounds?' she demanded.

‘Anything that reflects on your veracity, or objectivity.' Watching her face, Tony made his own voice as gentle as he could. ‘That's not just drug use, or promiscuity. It's everything about you.' He stopped abruptly, staring into her frozen eyes. Softly, he asked, ‘Do Ellen's parents know?'

Her skin seemed paler than before. With equal quiet, she answered, ‘You bastard.'

‘So,' Saul asked, ‘she's going away?'

‘I think so,' Tony answered wearily. ‘If Stella lets her. Jenny clearly cares for this Ellen, and she hadn't realized what testifying might mean to her.'

On the other end of the line, Saul was quiet for a moment. ‘Think she's telling the truth?'

‘It's surely possible – God knows she hates him. But there's an intensity to her that's not about injustice but personal psychology. Or so I keep telling myself.' Tony paused, reaching for the martini on his nightstand. ‘Frankly, Saul, I feel like I've contracted leprosy. Only a decent sense of shame kept me from telling her about all the gay and lesbian friends Stacey and I invite for dinner back in liberal San Francisco.'

Saul snorted at this. ‘All you did was tell this girl the truth. And doing to her in public what you did in private would have felt a whole lot worse. Or knowing someone else would do it.'

It was true enough, Tony knew. ‘I guess what bothers me most is the idea that I don't know who Sam Robb has turned out to be.' He paused for a moment. ‘My old friend is either the victim of bad luck, worse judgment, and truly substandard morals, or he's pathological enough to have murdered Marcie Calder.'

The bald admission deepened Tony's depression. ‘Under the circumstances,' Saul said at length, ‘I don't know whether this will cheer you up. But your guess about Ernie Nixon may have been right, after all. At least right enough to make him look bad.'

It did not surprise Tony that he felt no better. ‘Tony Lord,' he said, ‘the scourge of blacks and lesbians. For years it's been my highest aspiration.' Draining his martini, he finished, ‘So tell me about Ernie.'

Through Sarah Croff's window, Tony could see Ernie Nixon's home quite clearly, a modest white wooden house from about the 1920s, with a front porch, shade trees, a flower bed that seemed to have fallen into neglect, an unmowed lawn. Following Tony's gaze, Sarah Croff said with disapproval, ‘He's letting things go.'

It was the wages of divorce, Tony guessed. Even in the generous light of morning, Ernie Nixon's home bespoke abandonment. To Sarah Croff, he said, ‘You can certainly see who comes to the house, can't you.'

‘Oh, yes. Just like I told your Mr. Russo.'

There was a note of querulous superiority in her voice, as if Tony were an annoyance and not very bright. Tony guessed this was habitual, and not just a matter of being seventy or so: beneath her thinning white hair, her face seemed pinched with uncharity – hollow cheeks, a down-turned mouth, sharp eyes that Tony could not imagine crinkling in a smile. Turning to look at her again, he tried to remember why she seemed so familiar.

From behind her, sitting on the couch, Saul Ravin gave him a look that was faintly droll.
She's all yours
, the look informed Tony.
I'm just here to satisfy my curiosity
.

Mildly, Tony said to Sarah Croff, ‘What you told Sal could be very important. That's why I wanted to meet you myself.'

Mollified, Sarah Croff nodded toward the couch, indicating that he should sit beside Saul. ‘Sam Robb is a fine man, has always been my impression. I can remember him at sixteen or so, giving a wonderful sermon at a sunrise service here. My late husband and I were quite impressed.'

That
was it, Tony realized. Only his client's need for this woman kept Tony from laughing aloud: she was the anti-Catholic crone-in-waiting who had looked at Tony with such disapproval when he dragged Sam off at the conclusion of the sermon, announcing that it was time for them to go to Mass. He sensed that she had looked with disapproval at so many people that she no longer remembered this. But it was clear from her expression now that she remembered the murder of Alison Taylor.