Sam blinked. “I saw the hal way. The light on. And my mother’s door, shut.”
“And you didn’t see any other person in the house?”
Sam shook his head. “No.”
“It was just you, your mother, and little Rosie, is that right?”
“Yes,” said Sam.
“Sam, the prosecution has argued that your evidence in the original trial should be entered into the record here today. Can you tel us what evidence you gave in the original trial that is different from what you are tel ing us here today?”
“Yes,” Sam said firmly. “When I was seven I gave a statement that said I was hiding in my room and I saw a man dressed in jeans and a black windbreaker.”
“And did you later identify this man as Michael Dandridge?”
“I did.”
The courtroom was utterly silent. Hannah kept expecting the prosecutor to object, but he was sitting very stil . Parekh waited to ensure that the question had the maximum dramatic effect.
“Why did you do that, Sam?” he said, into the silence.
“Because Sheriff Pierce came to my house. He explained to me that he knew for sure that Michael Dandridge had kil ed my mother, but that the kind of evidence he had wasn’t the kind of evidence that the courts would al ow. He told me that Mr. Dandridge had attacked other women before and that they’d been trying to catch him for a long time, but that he was very sneaky. Very good at not getting caught. He told me I could make sure that my mother’s kil er went to prison and that I could protect al those other moms out there from Mr. Dandridge. He showed me Mr. Dandridge’s photograph. He gave me a copy, actual y, told me to keep it and be sure I looked at it every day.”
This time the murmur around the courtroom was considerably louder. Hannah wanted to turn and look at Pierce, but at the same time she couldn’t take her eyes off Sam. He was being so brave.
“And you believed him?” Parekh asked.
“I did.”
“But you don’t believe him now?” Parekh asked.
“I don’t,” Sam said firmly.
“And why is that, Sam?”
“Because I don’t believe good cops use seven-year-old boys to fabricate evidence. As far as I know, the only evidence against Mr.
Dandridge is my identification and his confession, which everyone knows was beaten out of him.”
“Objection, Judge. Facts not in evidence.” The prosecutor made his objection lazily, confidently, from his seated position.
“Sustained,” the judge said.
“Wel , we’l come back to that,” said Parekh. “But for now, Sam, let me just ask one more time for clarity. Did you see Michael Dandridge in your home on the night of your mother’s murder?”
“I did not.”
“And had you ever seen him in your home or at any time?”
“No. The first time I saw Mr. Dandridge was when Sheriff Pierce handed me his photograph. The first time I saw him in person was in court.” Sam turned to Dandridge. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Dandridge.”
Dandridge’s head was bowed as if he couldn’t bear the weight of hope that was upon him, but he looked up at Sam’s words, and nodded.
“Thank you, Sam,” Parekh said. He took his seat, and Engle rose to cross-examine.
“Mr. Fitzhugh, did you speak to the defense team before taking the stand today?” Engle asked briskly.
“Yes,” Sam said.
“And did they ask you to change your testimony?”
“They asked me to tel the truth.”
“Do you know who kil ed your mother?” Engle asked.
“I . . . no . . .”
“You didn’t see some other man that night, creeping out of your mother’s room?”
“No.” Sam was flushed now, angry.
“So you’re tel ing the court now that you don’t know if Mr.
Dandridge here murdered your mother. The very best evidence you have to offer, which contradicts your previous sworn testimony, is that Mr. Dandridge may have committed the crime, or he may not have, but either way, you have no light to shed on the matter.”
Sam sat there, lips tight, eyes angry, and said nothing.
“What age are you?” Engle asked.
“I’m eighteen,” Sam said.
“Eighteen years old,” Engle said. “So eleven years have passed since the first trial, and you say now you lied in that trial. And during those eleven years you never once thought about coming forward to tel what you now say is the truth?”