Judge Pruitt glanced at the clock. "The defense may call its next witness."
Jesse stood. "The defense calls Eddie Rucker."
Chapter 22: The Real Robber
The deputies brought Eddie Rucker in through the side door, and the courtroom went quiet in a different way than it had gone quiet before. He was a thin man in his thirties, with tired eyes and jail-pale skin, wearing the orange jumpsuit of the Cedar County lockup. He walked to the witness stand with the shuffling step of a man who had stopped hurrying anywhere years ago. The bailiff swore him in, and he answered in a voice worn thin by cigarettes and county air.
Jesse watched the jury watch him. That was the whole trial now, he thought. Twelve faces, reading everything.
"Mr. Rucker," Jesse said, after the oath, "please state your name for the record."
"Eddie Rucker."
"Where do you currently reside?"
A dry sound that might have been a laugh. "Cedar County jail."
"Are you testifying here today voluntarily?"
"No. The court ordered me."
"Has the state granted you immunity for your testimony today?"
"Use immunity," Rucker said. "Nothing I say here can be used against me. That's the only reason I'm talking."
Jesse nodded. "Mr. Rucker, did you rob the QuickStop on Highway 41 on that Friday night in January?"
"Yes."
"What were you wearing?"
"Ski mask. Dark clothes."
"What happened to the mask?"
"Left it in the car. Stupid."
"What car?"
"Gray sedan. Four-door. Left taillight was dead when I got hold of it. I never fixed it."
Jesse felt the jury lean forward, all at once, like a field of wheat in wind. "What time did you go into the store?"
"Eleven oh five, thereabouts. The clerk was counting the register."
"What did you take?"
"Cash. Four hundred and eleven dollars."
"Where is the sedan now?"
"Left it behind a feed store past the Cedar County line. Cops found it."
"Mr. Rucker," Jesse said, "have you ever met the defendant, Andre Cole, before today?"
Rucker glanced at the defense table for the first time. "Never seen him before this courtroom."
"Is Andre Cole the man who robbed the QuickStop?"
"No," Rucker said. "I robbed the QuickStop."
Jesse did not look at the jury. He had learned not to look, not to seem to beg. But he could feel them — twelve people rearranging everything they thought they knew, the way you rearrange furniture in a room when the light changes.
The words landed like stones in still water. In the gallery, Lena made a small sound and covered it with her hand. Judge Pruitt was writing, his pen moving fast. Theo's pen was flying across his notebook.
"Thank you, Mr. Rucker," Jesse said. "Nothing further."
Dana Whitfield stood. She did not smooth her jacket this time. She walked to the witness stand and stopped closer to it than courtesy required.
"Mr. Rucker," she said. "You're a thief."
"Yes, ma'am."
"A drifter."
"Yes, ma'am."
"The state has given you immunity, so nothing you say here can hurt you. Convenient."
"Lady, I'm sitting in a jail cell," Rucker said. "The mask had my DNA in it. I'm already caught. I'm not buying anything."
"Did anyone ask you to take responsibility for this robbery?"
"No."
"Are you protecting someone?"
"I'm protecting me," Rucker said. "And I'm telling you what happened."
"You remember the taillight, after all these months?"
""I drove that car three weeks. I know every dent in it."
"You were paid to say this."
"Lady," Rucker said, "nobody pays me for anything.""
Whitfield picked up a folder and let it fall closed. "You expect this jury to take the word of a confessed robber over the testimony of an eyewitness?"
"I expect them to look at the mask," Rucker said. "It's got my DNA in it. Not his."
She stared at him. The courtroom stared at her staring at him. There was nothing else in the folder, and everyone in the room knew it.
"No further questions," she said.
Jesse stood. "Nothing further, Your Honor."
The deputies came forward. Rucker rose, and at the side door he stopped and looked back — not at Jesse, not at the jury, but at Andre, a long level look, almost an apology. Then he was gone, and the door closed behind him with a sound like a period at the end of a sentence.
In the gallery, Silas Grant closed his eyes, and Jesse thought he saw the old man's shoulders drop, as if he had been holding his breath for days.
Jesse could feel the turn in the room the way a sailor feels a turn in the wind. In the jury box, two jurors were whispering. The forewoman had her arms crossed and was looking at the empty witness stand as if it were still occupied.