The Short and Tragic Life of Robert Peace by Jeff Hobbs Page A

have taken place—seven thirty—and when Georgianna’s roommate had first calledthe police two hours later (the warmth of the dead bodies upon police arrival did not help explain that, either); a suspect who, though a known drug dealer, had neither prior convictions nor any history of violence; the less-than-kosher initial police search of apartment 2D, the tuxedo picture illegally taken from the scene, and conflicting police statements as to when the gun holster had actually been found—before the warrant was issued or after (because the holster had been concealed by dirty clothes, finding it before the warrant would have required more than the quick, noninvasive search granted by law); the fact that not one of the interviews conducted so far had alluded to anything resembling a motive.
    All of these questions would be sufficiently answered, Lechliter was sure, before the case went to trial. In the meantime he had the murder weapon, found on the suspect’s person at the time of arrest, and that was really all he needed to win. That, and for Skeet Douglas to obtain legal representation, so that the requisite filings, hearings, appeals, motions, pleas, movements, selections, and—ultimately—the trial of State of New Jersey v. Robert Douglas could commence.

    J ACKIE TRIED TO hold her son’s hand on the bus ride to Essex County Jail, but he wouldn’t let her. He gazed out the windows at autumnal Newark flashing past. Most of the other passengers were women in their late teens and early twenties en route to see boyfriends, husbands, brothers. The rest were older, probably parents. Rob was the lone child.
    Jackie hadn’t wanted to bring him so soon, but Skeet had been adamant. He’d used so many of his daily fifteen minutes of phone time—minutes that were supposed to be used to contact lawyers—to call her instead, demanding to see his son, that she’d finally given in. “I’m his father, he loves me, he can see me as I am,” Skeet told her. “I’m not guilty and I’m not ashamed.”
    At the jail, Rob walked the same path she’d walked a few times already, past the same checkpoints and the same gatekeepers, until he was watching his father through the glass. Never before had their likeness struck her so strongly, and it loosened valves within her, the ones that kept her darker feelings contained. Even here, the boy emulated his father, the way he held the handset loosely to his ear, his other elbow propped on the counter, head angled down, words spoken in a low mumble.
    Skeet asked, “How are you doing, little man?”
    Rob told him about street football, summer camp, and first grade starting at Oakdale. Skeet promised that he would call him every day, that he would be here whenever Rob was able to visit, that he would be home very soon.
    â€œHey,” Skeet said, just before their time was up, “you know I didn’t do anything wrong, right? You know I’m innocent?”
    â€œYeah,” Rob replied, his confidence unwavering. In that moment, Jackie almost believed Skeet, too.

    S CHOOL BEGAN , and Jackie tried to treat the changing days and seasons normally, for her son’s sake. She walked him to school, bused herself to work, and met him back at home. She was worried about his learning progress, both because his teachers were less than inspired and because of the emotional trauma he was enduring. With Skeet’s help and his own motivation, Rob had always been able to bridge the gap between his own drive and the lack thereof at Oakdale Elementary. Jackie tried to fill Skeet’s role doing homework, but she wore out easily. After long days taking orders in the kitchen, she didn’t generally have the strength to give orders at home. Over the following months, Rob began gaining weight—“husky,” she started calling him—and acting lazy. Coming home and seeing her seven-year-old splayed on the