Chapter 7 - My Statement Helped Make Thomas The Suspect
I requested my old statement from archives.
Not because paper knows more than people.
Because I wanted to see my own words before memory edited them again.
Six pages.
Twenty-six-year-old Evelyn Carter.
Assistant district attorney.
Daughter.
Sister.
Terrible combination for a witness.
I had told investigators I saw Thomas outside the jury records corridor at 6:12 p.m.
True.
I had asked what he was doing.
He said:
“Dad is going to bury this.”
That line was not in my statement.
I had forgotten omitting it.
Maybe forgotten is generous.
My next sentence in the official transcript said:
Thomas appeared angry and refused to explain why he was present.
I stared.
He had explained.
I simply didn't believe him.
A knock came at my chambers door.
Aaron entered.
“Did you find it?”
“Yes.”
He saw my face.
“What?”
“I omitted what Thomas said about Dad.”
Aaron sat.
“Why?”
“I don't remember.”
“Evelyn.”
“I remember the conversation. I don't remember deciding to leave the sentence out.”
He waited.
Then I did.
Not perfectly.
A fluorescent hallway.
Thomas carrying a legal pad.
Me saying:
“If you've got evidence, give it to the investigators.”
Thomas:
“Dad is stopping it.”
Me:
“Then go around him.”
Thomas laughed.
“You really believe there's an around Henry Carter in this building?”
I had been furious.
“You sound paranoid.”
He stared at me.
Then:
“You sound like him.”
I hated that.
Later, during my interview, the investigator asked whether Thomas had said why he was angry.
I answered:
“Family disagreements.”
I closed my eyes.
“I turned his accusation into family drama.”
Aaron said nothing.
“I did.”
“Yes.”
Not absolving me.
Good.
“Did your father tell you to?”
“No.”
Important.
“Did Samuel?”
“No.”
“So that part was mine.”
“Yes.”
I looked at the statement again.
“What happened to Pike?”
“Resigned four months later.”
“Why?”
“Officially health.”
“Unofficially?”
“My father thought there'd been misconduct.”
“You knew?”
“No.”
“When did you learn?”
“From the notebook.”
Right.
“Do you think Pike leaked the questionnaires?”
“I think Dad suspected it.”
“Proof?”
“No.”
“Thomas?”
Aaron looked toward the door.
“He probably had something.”
“What?”
“I don't know.”
The wooden box?
Maybe.
But I was not going to turn one object into a vault of answers.
“Why did your father meet Thomas years later?”
“I've been thinking about that.”
“And?”
“My father started trying to find him after he retired.”
That surprised me.
“Why?”
“He became obsessed with correcting old reports.”
“Did he contact me?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Aaron laughed softly.
“You were already a judge.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“He thought you'd treat him like a witness.”
“That sounds fair.”
“He also thought you hated him.”
“I barely knew him personally.”
“No.”
Aaron looked at me.
“He meant you hated what his name represented.”
Samuel Cole.
The detective whose investigation settled around Thomas.
Maybe I did.
“Did your father find Thomas?”
“Apparently.”
“As Martin Vale.”
“Maybe.”
“What happened?”
Aaron shook his head.
“I wish I knew.”
Then he took out his phone.
“My sister found something.”
He showed me an old voicemail transcription from Samuel's home number.
Eight years earlier.
A male voice:
Sam, it's Thomas. I'm outside. If you still want to tell Evelyn, tell her yourself. I’m not doing it for you.
My hand tightened around the phone.
Thomas.
Not proof to a laboratory.
Proof to me.
I heard the clipped ending of his sentences.
The impatience.
The way he swallowed the T in “want.”
My brother had been alive.
He had spoken that close to me in time while I was sitting on a bench issuing rulings about other people's credibility.
Aaron watched my face.
“That's him.”
“Yes.”
“You're sure.”
“Yes.”
No joy arrived.
Only anger.
“Why didn't Samuel tell me?”
Aaron looked down.
“I don't know.”
Then my chambers phone rang.
Miriam answered outside.
A moment later she came in.
“Judge?”
“What?”
“There's a man downstairs asking to speak with you.”
My heartbeat changed.
“Name?”
“He won't give one.”
Aaron stood.
“Security—”
I raised one hand.
Miriam continued:
“He said to tell you the laurel was never a promise to come home.”
My knees weakened.
Thomas had said that once.
The night he broke Mother's brooch.
It isn't a promise to come home, Evie.
It means we each get to leave with something that was ours before Dad explains it to us.
May you like
I looked at Aaron.
“He's here.”
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