Confessions: The Private School Murders (23 page)

“Go ahead, Ms. Raphael,” the judge ordered.

“Thank you, Your Honor.”

Philippe sat down again, hard. Ms. Raphael picked up a sheaf of papers and began to read.

“You said this for the record, Harry. ‘My brother was
in a mad rage, and he threatened to kill my father and Tamara. He was taking drugs at the time, so I don’t think he was in his right mind.’ Do you remember saying that, Harry?”

“No,” Harry said. “I’m drawing an absolute blank. But then, I was taking drugs as well.”

Ms. Raphael threw up her hands.

“I have no further questions for this witness,” she said.

After checking with Phil to see if he had any questions for Harry, the judge told Harry to step down.

Harry scrambled off the witness stand and shot me a triumphant look as he passed my seat on his way down the aisle. I gave him an affirmative nod, but my stomach was still twisted in knots.

Hugo was Ms. Raphael’s next witness.

48

Hugo looked self-assured
and collected in his dress pants, white shirt, and yellow tie, which he flapped a couple of times on his way to the witness stand. He put his hand on the Bible as the burly bailiff asked him if he swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help him God.

Hugo said, “I do,” and climbed up to the seat in the witness box. He squirmed a little to get comfortable, then slid forward so that he could lean on the edge in front of him.

The prosecutor came toward him, and Hugo fixed her with a steady, cheeky eye. He appeared completely confident, but it was all an act. A convincing one but an act. I
twisted my hands in my lap because I knew the truth: My little brother was scared out of his mind.

Last night, Hugo had crawled into bed with me, crying. He was terrified of betraying Matthew and rambled on about running off to Brazil so he could hide in the jungle until Nadine Raphael forgot he ever existed. I’d calmed him down and told him he just had to tell the truth. That was the law. If he told the truth, everything would be fine.

I just hoped I was right.

I drew in deep, measured breaths as Ms. Raphael took Hugo through preliminary questions to establish his relationships and his whereabouts on the night in question. Then she was into the meat of her interrogation. Her demeanor was stiff, probably because after Harry’s performance, she wasn’t about to take any crap from Hugo. Good luck.

“Did Matthew ever show you a knife he owns?” Ms. Raphael asked, cocking her head in a quizzical way.

Hugo kicked at the half wall in front of the chair. “Uh-huh.”

“You must answer either yes or no.”

Hugo sniffed. “Okay. Yes.”

Ms. Raphael walked a few paces away, then turned. “Could you describe the knife for the jury?”

“It’s this big,” Hugo said, holding his fingers six inches apart. “It’s a switchblade.”

“And what did Matthew tell you about this switchblade?”

Hugo’s eyes flicked to Matthew, who was watching our little brother unflinchingly. “He said he didn’t want to carry a gun, but he needed something to fight with.”

“Anything else, Hugo?” Ms. Raphael asked.

I hoped he wouldn’t give her whatever it was she was looking for. In fact, I willed him to stop talking. But Hugo and I weren’t exactly psychic, and he didn’t get the message.

“He said, ‘People shouldn’t screw with me,’ ” Hugo said, sitting up straight and proud. “And he said he wasn’t taking shit from anyone.”

Nervous laughter lapped the courtroom. Ms. Raphael didn’t smile, but I could see in her eyes that she was pleased.

“Did he refer to anyone when he was telling you this?” she asked.

Hugo shrugged. “No.”

Ms. Raphael’s perfect eyebrows shot up. “Are you sure about that, Hugo? You’ve sworn to tell the truth.”

“I’m sure.” Hugo cleared his throat. “That’s a pretty big stain on your blouse, Ms. Raphael. You should put something on that before it’s too late.”

“Thank you,” said the prosecutor. She looked down at her blouse, then hooked her hair behind her ears and said to Hugo, “Do you remember my question?”

“Who was he talking about when he said he didn’t take shit from anyone?” Hugo repeated.

“That’s right, Hugo. Do you remember when you had this conversation about the knife with Matthew? Was it after you saw an interview show on television?”

Hugo trained pleading eyes on me. My heart felt heavy, but there was nothing I could do. I nodded, hoping he’d get my message.

“Objection! Leading the witness,” Phil called out.

The judge hesitated a beat. “Overruled.”

Hugo tore his gaze from me and focused on Ms. Raphael. “Okay, yeah. Now I remember,” he said. “Matthew showed me his knife right after Tamara told that TV lady she was having a baby with Dad.”

“I see. And when Matthew said he wasn’t taking any ‘shit’ from anyone, did you get the feeling he was referring to someone in particular?”

“Uh-huh. I mean, yes.” Hugo averted his eyes from me, from Matthew, from the prosecutor. “He was mad at Tamara.”

“Thank you, Hugo. Your witness,” Ms. Raphael said to Philippe.

49

“Hugo, how are you doing?”
Phil asked my little brother.

Hugo stared at a random spot on the floor. “I’ve been better.”

“I think everyone here understands that,” Phil said. “You love Matthew very much, don’t you?”

“Like, more than anyone,” Hugo said. “Sorry, Tandy.”

More laughter, some of it sympathetic this time. I couldn’t help smiling. The courtroom liked Hugo.

“I have only a few questions for you, young man,” Phil said. “Did Matthew ever tell you he killed Tamara?”

I held my breath, suddenly realizing I had no idea what Hugo might say.

“Nope,” Hugo said. “I mean, no,” he added, pointedly
staring at Ms. Raphael. “He never told me he killed Tamara.”

Nice.

“Thank you for your truthful testimony, Hugo.”

“But I don’t think he would tell me if he did it,” Hugo added.

It was all I could do not to cover my face with my hands. Of all the amazing traits Hugo had been born with, brevity couldn’t have been one of them?

Phil paused, probably considering whether there was anything he could say to nullify Hugo’s afterthought. Then the moment passed.

“Thank you, Hugo,” he said. “You may step down.”

I almost collapsed in relief when Hugo climbed down out of the witness stand without saying another word and walked across the courtroom floor.

But before he went through the gate, Hugo veered off, ran to Matthew, and threw himself on top of him. Matthew held him as best he could with his cuffed wrists, and both of them cried—Matthew silently, Hugo like a calf being led to the slaughterhouse.

“I’m sorry, Matthew! I just want you to come home!” Hugo cried. “Are they gonna let you come home?” All around the gallery, people gasped and
tsk
ed.

I jumped up, but the judge slammed down the gavel
and the bailiff yanked Hugo off Matthew. He held Hugo firmly by the arm and marched him out of the courtroom.

That, my friend, is what I call a really bad day.

And it wasn’t over yet.

50

Hugo was still crying
his great big heart out when we got to the street. He turned his face up to me and wailed, “I’m such a traitor! I hate myself!”

“You’re not a traitor,” I told him. “You did what you had to do. You swore to tell the truth and you did it.”

Jacob hailed a taxi, and when reporters began to stampede toward us, I fended them off with a stony “No comment.”

I must have looked fierce. Or insane. Either way, it worked.

Harry got into the cab first, then Hugo, then me, while Jacob held the door and stared down the press. Jacob took the front seat next to the driver, and the cab shot away
from the curb, headed uptown. I put my arms around Hugo, and he buried his face in my coat. Harry sat with his forehead pressed up against the grimy window, deflated. I knew the feeling. I was so grateful that I hadn’t known about Matthew’s knife or threats against Tamara. I was so glad I hadn’t had to take the stand like my poor brothers.

We were on the move, but as we left Lower Manhattan, reporters who’d been rebuffed on Centre Street put out the word that we were heading north so that by the time we got to the Dakota, there was a mob waiting for us.