Acre Under a Green Sky

I was there the day it happened. I'll never forget it.

We had been deposited at the office early that morning. My grandfather was on his way to the courthouse, and I begged him to take me with him. He said I'd be bored and that I'd want to leave after ten minutes. I swore I wouldn't. He said that I'd have to stay no matter what and that I'd have to keep my mouth shut; no comments or chatting with Luka or waving or anything. I understood. Would I promise to sit quietly all day and not be a bother to anyone? I promised. I swore on a stack of bibles. You would think I had never been in court before. He agreed.

Court was already in session when we arrived. My grandfather put me in one of the back benches and joined my father and Luka up front. I had to kneel on the bench to see, but I was thrilled to be there again. An old woman sitting next to me gave me a wedge of her apple. I bit into it, and it seemed to me that the noise was like a crack of thunder. I spit the apple out into my hand, and put the whole thing into my jeans pocket where I believe it is to this day.

Sadly, my grandfather was right. Within seconds, I was bored stiff. My knees were killing me, so I sat up on the back of the bench with my feet on the seat. I was a good two heads above all the other spectators with a perfect view of the proceedings. It didn't help. Luka looked bored, too. He was sitting with both elbows on the table; cradling his chin in his fists. I realized only then that Luka's hair was combed. I don't know why I didn't notice before. It looked funny; all straight and slick.

I knew none of the people parading up and down to the witness stand, but they sure were dull. The only thing vaguely exciting was my father and Matt Bradley jumping up with objections every few minutes; but even then, I had no idea what they were talking about. Then it occurred to me that it might be fun to go to the bathroom. I asked the woman next to me to save my seat. She said she would; then she said, "Hurry now. You don't want to miss anything." I wanted to spit in her eye –– poor woman.

The bathroom at the courthouse was fun. I always liked it. It was really big with a whole wall of urinals on one side and half a dozen toilet stalls and wash basins on the opposite wall. The walls were white tile and the floors were small black and white octagonal blocks. Some of the octagonal blocks were missing and still others were loose so you could pry them up and kick them across the room like hockey pucks. The back wall had one huge window facing out onto a courtyard below the jailhouse. The window sill was wide enough to stand on, and you could stand there and listen to the prisoners shouting down instructions and messages to family and friends standing below in the courtyard. But the really great thing about the bathroom was the echo. You could go down the row of urinals flushing one after the other, and the sound was like Niagara Falls. Or you could sing and sound just like Pat Boone or Paul Anka on their records. The wash basins were fun, too. The force of the faucets was incredible. It was fun to wait patiently for a grown-up to come in, take a leak, and then step over to the basin. Invariably, the water would jet up and over the basin right onto their laps. A lot of men leaving that bathroom looked as though they had just wet their pants. So much for the wisdom of washing up after taking a piss.

But when I entered the bathroom that day, there were already four or five men there, and no sooner did one leave than two more came in. This was no fun. I was looking forward to crawling underneath all the stalls locking doors as I went. Now I was just plain embarrassed. I ducked into one of the booths and locked myself in. Fortunately, I had to use the toilet so it wasn't a total waste.

I could hear voices raised inside the courtroom even before I got the door open. My father and Matt Bradley were having a good shouting match. The judge couldn't get a word in. I took my seat high above the others and thanked God for some excitement. My father was waving around a sheaf of 8 X 10 photos; pointing at Bradley with them, punctuating his objections with them, pounding on the judge's bench with them. The witness on the stand appeared totally disinterested in their dispute. It had something to do with what was admissible and what wasn't. Finally, the judge did some shouting of his own; and in a pique, my father threw the photos down on the defense table in front of Luka; splaying them out across the table like playing cards.

Now, the judge was calmly explaining his decision, when all of a sudden Luka rose slowly to his feet with his head bowed down; and then dropped to the floor like a marionette whose strings had been cut. There were a few gasps, but mostly everyone laughed. It really was comical the way he just dropped straight down as if every bone in his body had suddenly turned to dust. Leave it to Luka to find a funny way to break up the monotony. I was laughing my ass off; poking the poor woman next to me the whole time.

It didn't take long for the laughter to die. Luka was out cold, and the man on the witness stand was rushing to his side. I stood full up on the bench and watched the man loosen Luka's tie.

"This man is unconscious," the man said, "I need my bag and a quiet place to examine him."

The judge told the bailiffs to help the doctor carry Luka into his chambers, and then he recessed the court "until Monday morning presuming the defendant makes a full recovery over the week-end."

The whole time, my father was hovering and squawking like a hen about his client having council present during any examination; all the while he was gathering up those photos from the table. No one was paying any attention.

My father had made a grave mistake. He had broken one of his own most stringent rules: Never let a witness or a juror or a spectator or the defendant see crime scene photos unless you want them to see. Keep them close to your vest or face down on any surface. Leave them in your briefcase until they're needed and then return them to your briefcase immediately after if they are not taken directly into evidence as exhibits. Among other things, he felt it was cruel to carelessly display photos of human beings after hideous death.

My father had allowed Luka to see photos of his butchered family. That mistake would cost him dearly.

Two uniformed bailiffs appeared out of nowhere with a stretcher. I moved forward with a handful of other gawkers and found myself pressed up against the rail like a spectator at a sporting event. Matt Bradley and two of his assistants started shooing people out of the courtroom. Just then my grandfather saw me and picked me up and over the rail. He lowered me to the floor and immediately turned his attention back to the scene at hand. My father was still dancing around the floor like a nervous nellie –– hugging those photos to his chest with one arm while holding his briefcase under the other arm as if it was a giant purse. Thankfully, my grandfather took the briefcase from my father before very long.

The doctor was undoing Luka's belt which was really my father's belt. Just then, the bailiffs lifted Luka off the ground with the doctor still in attendance as if somehow attached to Luka, and they all started for the door next to the Judge's bench. My father was right behind them followed by my grandfather and then me.

We passed through what appeared to be a secretary's office into a large, luxuriously appointed office about the size of my grandfather's office back home. All the lights were on in both offices, but there was not a sign of either the secretary or the judge.

The bailiffs were headed in the direction of the large sofa, but the doctor told them to put Luka on the floor. Then the doctor knelt beside Luka and started rifling his little black bag.

Luka was revived with the help of smelling salts. He had no idea where he was or who was peering down at him with a stethoscope listening to his heart through his open shirt.

Then Luka saw my father, and said, "I have to see the judge."

"Take it easy, Luka. You passed out," my father said.

Luka waved the doctor aside and sat up.

"No. I have to see the judge now," he said, "We have to see the judge."

My father turned to the doctor for help.

"I think he's all right," the doctor said, "He should rest though. And he should definitely see someone tomorrow."

"I'll take care of it. Could you leave us alone now?"

While the doctor packed his things into his little black bag, my father helped Luka over to an overstuffed leather sofa the color of caramels. My father could not sit down. He could only pace.

When at last the doctor appeared ready to leave, my father went to the door separating the two offices and held it open for the doctor. Even after the doctor was gone, he stood there with his hand on the doorknob inviting us to leave, too. My grandfather grumbled something; then took my hand and together we passed through the door into the outer office. My father closed the door with a resounding click.

There were two chairs up against the wall next to the closed door. I sat on the one closest to the door, and my grandfather sat next to me. We could barely hear what was being said in the judge's chambers.

"Christ, you gave me a scare," my father said, "What's this all about?"

"I did it."

"Did what?"

"I killed them, Josh. It was me."

My grandfather and I gaped at each other. Then he moved to the door and quietly opened it a good three inches. From where I sat, I could clearly see Luka there on the sofa, but not a bit of my father who was standing deeper into the room. Now, we were hearing every word; or at least I was. From time to time, my grandfather asked me to repeat a phrase or maybe a whole sentence just like he did when we went to the movies. But he made no attempt to watch what was going on. He just sat back and listened as hard as he could.

"No, you didn't," my father was saying, "You've had a bad shock. It was all my fault. I wasn't thinking."

"The pictures."

"I know. I'm sorry. You were never meant to see those. It's all my fault."

"I did it."

"Come on, man. You're dreaming. Wake up! We're almost home here. Don't go crazy on me now."

"Are they all out there? The judge and all?"

"No, everybody's gone. You'll get some rest, and we'll get Doc Mace over here to see you tomorrow; and by Monday, you'll be just fine. You've had a bad shock. You passed out on us, man. You should have seen yourself."

"It's in the picture."

"Yeah, I know, but you've got to put them out of your mind. All right?"

Now Luka was on his feet, too, and my father moved into view.

"We've got to get them back," Luka said, "We've got to tell them."

"Tell them what, Luka?"

"That I killed them. I killed them all."

"Are you crazy?!"

"We have to tell the judge. Now! Today! He's got to know."

"You son-of-a-bitch!"

My father stopped just short of punching Luka. He turned his back on Luka and walked across the room out of sight again. After a moment, we could hear him say, "This is totally insane, you know. You can't do this to me. Not now. Not after all the shit I've had to take for you. This is too fucking much!"

"I can't help it. I did it."

"Look at you! We're talking about murder here. You're –– you're as calm as a cucumber. Have you been playing me all along? What are you –– some kind of maniac? Oh, God in heaven, this can't be happening!"

"It's in the picture. I didn't know until I saw the picture."

"What picture?! What are you talking about?! Oh God, I'm dying here. This is a bad dream."

Then my father appeared from across the room so suddenly and so quickly that I jumped in my chair. He grabbed Luka and said, "You're killing me here, Luka."

One fist held Luka's lapel while the other was raised to strike, but Luka did not recoil; nor did he turn away. He looked my father straight in the eye with what looked like total acceptance. My father appeared taken aback by Luka's expression. Even I couldn't make it out. Was it a look of pure innocence or madness; I couldn't tell. My father was frozen in that attack posture. He was close enough to feel Luka's breath on his face; close enough to smell the Brylcreem in Luka's hair.

"You have lost your mind, haven't you?" my father whispered harshly, as if this were the most intimate of secrets between friends. I had to repeat it for my grandfather.

"I'm sorry, Josh," Luka whispered back, "I'm zero. There's nothing here anymore. Zero."

My father embraced Luka and hugged him hard; clutching the back of his suit jacket and making noises like he was trying to cry. Then, he grabbed Luka's shoulders and pushed him out at arm's length.

"You'll be all right. I know!" my father said, "We'll get you some help. You didn't do this, Luka. You couldn't have. I'm sorry, Luka. I guess I should have realized, but I didn't."

"I remembered," Luka said.

"Yes, I'm sure you think you did. Look! We've got to finish this thing. We'll get you off, and then we'll get some help for you. But you've got to keep your mouth shut. For now, you've got to trust me. You did not kill anyone!"

"Look at the picture."

"What picture? Where are they?"

My father scanned the room for the photos. Then he stepped out of view again. When he came back, he was shuffling through the photos without really looking at them as if they were someone's vacation snapshots. But, of course, there was no need to look at them. He had studied each one a million times since this whole mess began. He knew them like the back of his hand. What could there be to see now?

"The one of Gran," Luka said, "Lying on the floor."

"Estelle? Which one? There are six or seven here."

"The one with two pictures on it. Side by side."

I remembered that photo. It was a composite photo of two different views of Estelle's body –– one as she was found face down on the kitchen floor –– and the other taken after she had been turned over onto her back.

My father found the photo and laid the others face down on the sofa. He glanced at the photo, and I wondered what he could have missed; what the police and DA's office could have missed. After all, my father had seen the real thing that morning so long ago, and there it was again staring back at him; the blue robe with the rows of little wool balls and the blood –– the pool of blood –– the blood saturating the robe.

"What?" my father cried out, "What am I supposed to see?"

Luka touched the photo.

"Her collar? What?" my father begged.

"That!" Luka said.

"It looks like a smear of mayonnaise."

"It's a flower. I put it there in her buttonhole that night. An orchid. I took it out from behind my ear, and I put it through her buttonhole, and then I kissed her cheek. I remember as clear as day."

My father didn't want to get it. He didn't want to understand. "That doesn't mean shit! I mean, that could have happened any night."

"There it is," Luka said, "That's the orchid little Patty McIntyre was wearing at the Royal Grill that night. She took it off and put it behind my ear."

"There was never any mention of a flower in the police inventory."

"Maybe they didn't think it was important. Would you?"

"That doesn't look like a flower to me."

"It is a flower. I know. I put it there."

"Shit! Does it get any worse?! You bastard! Well, let me tell you something, pal. You're going to get away with murder, because I can't change your plea mid-trial and I am not begging Bradley for mercy after all I've been through. I'm going to win this case, and after this, I'm going to win another, and then another. I am going to have my own offices, and I am never going to have to listen to that old fart again! And no old bastard with half a brain will ever pick my pocket again! And you are just going to have to live with your guilt!"

I looked over at my grandfather hoping he hadn't heard. He held out a silencing hand and betrayed nothing of what he might be feeling.

"You don't have to do anything," Luka was saying to my father, "I'll take care of it."

"Wait a minute! Let me get this straight. You gave Estelle a flower and kissed her on the cheek and then stabbed her fourteen times? I don't believe it. Something's wrong. This is all wrong."

"She said something."

"Oh, she said something? Great! What did she say?"

"She said, 'We don't want you here anymore.'"

"Yeah –– go on."

"That was all."

"And you killed her?"

"Something happened."

"I guess so. What happened?"

"To me. I don't know."

"And while you're at it, why not kill the rest of the family. What the hell!?"

"I just had to make it stop."

"What? Make what stop?"

"I don't know. My life. I don't know."

"You are crazy, and you're making me crazy, too. How do I know that's a flower? You say it is, but how do I know it is? It doesn't look like a flower. And even if it is, how do I know it's the flower Patty gave you? Just because you say so? I think this is all in your head. You've finally lost your mind. I don't blame you. This business would drive anyone crazy, but promise me you'll keep your delusions to yourself. Just till I get this trial over. Please, just give me this. Please!"

"You know I did it. You know as well as I do."

And in that instant, I think my father did know. He fell back into the leather sofa, and air escaped with a whoosh from the cushion. He put his hand over his heart, and shook his head hard as if to shake out a bad dream. His breath was deep and labored, and with each breath, I think the certainty of Luka's guilt was sinking deeper and deeper into his consciousness. But not mine! Nothing on this Earth could convince me of Luka's guilt –– not even his confession.

After a time, my father laughed and said, "That poor old woman read the clock right, didn't she? I love that old gal. And look what I did to her in open court for all the world to see."

"I'm sorry."

"Sit down, Luka. Tell me what happened. All of it. Every fucking second!"