"The boy had been stabbed three times in the chest. One strike punctured the heart and would by itself have been fatal. The knife was driven straight in and jerked straight out again, one-two-three, like a bayonet. The weapon had a jagged edge, evidenced by shredding at the left edge of each wound and in the torn shirt fabric. The angle of entry suggested an attacker about...five foot ten or so, although the sloping ground in the park made this projection unreliable. The weapon had not been found. There were no defensive wounds: the victim's arms and hands were unmarked..."
- William Landay, Defending Jacob
Some time ago, I was standing in CVS Pharmacy getting a prescription for my daughter’s 10,000th earache (10,000 being a rough approximation). While I waited for the amoxicillin to be filled, I wandered over to the magazine rack to do some browsing. I instantly noticed something. The magazine/book rack sure has changed since I worked in a pharmacy in high school. Most of the magazines had motorcycles or abdomens on them. Most of the books had abdomens and corsets. There was very little to interest me, and much to make me self-conscious about my stomach.
In this mass of printed trash, William Landay’s Defending Jacob leapt out at me. Not because it looked awesome, but mainly because it didn't look terrible (and there were no heaving bosoms on the cover).
It’s been twenty years since I passed through my legal thriller phase (Grisham, Turrow, Diehl), and I really had no intention of recapturing that passing romance. But the pharmacy was slow, and it was either read Defending Jacob or compare Pedialyte flavors.
Defending Jacob is a great impulse purchase book. It belongs on newsstands or at airports or in dithering pharmacies. That’s because it has a premium hook: a prosecutor’s son has been charged in the brutal murder of a classmate. The prosecutor must leave his job and join in the defense. This is the kind of high concept plot that can be boiled down to a gripping tagline: Andy Barber used to put criminals in prison…Now he has to keep his son out of one. (That tagline is best read in a deeply baritone inner voice).
Defending Jacob is told in the first person by Andy Barber, an experienced assistant district attorney in suburban Massachusetts. His son, fourteen year-old Jacob is the one accused of stabbing a classmate to death and leaving his body in a park. The twist in the storytelling structure is that it opens at some point in the future after Jacob’s trial has been resolved. (Of course, the result of that trial is artfully hidden by the narrator, which is why I despise the first-person p.o.v. as a cheat).
In the first paragraph, Andy reveals that he is under grand jury investigation by his old office. This sets up parallel mysteries. First, is Jacob innocent? Second, why is Andy in front of the grand jury? I am bound to respect how quickly Landay sucked me in with this trick. One second I was waiting for amoxicillin; the next, I’m at the counter with a mass market paperback in one hand, and a bottle of Yellow Tail in the other. (Because waiting makes me thirsty).
It’s been almost twenty years since I closed the cover of Grisham’s The Runaway Jury and ended my brief affair with the legal thriller. As I plunged into Defending Jacob, I wondered-slash-worried about what tropes to expect. Vast conspiracies? Legal maneuvering that’s not allowed in actual courtrooms? An epic closing statement that gets the jury to decide with you, despite the overwhelming evidence of your client’s guilt?
To Landay’s credit, Defending Jacob has more on its mind that surprise witnesses and eleventh hour twists. Two-thirds of the book is spent outside the courtroom, much of it focused on the Barber family dynamics, as Andy tries to understand the most un-understandable creature on earth: a sullen teenager. There is an extended subplot dealing with Andy’s own family history, which leads to a philosophy-lite discussion over nature-verses-nurture and determinism verses free will. The content of this subplot is far from profound, but I appreciate the fact that the novel has more going on than meets the eye.
As a criminal defense attorney myself, I also appreciated Landay’s faithful rendering of the legal process. (Landay is a former district attorney, just like his main character…The author bio does not indicate whether his own son is an accused murderer). With a few exceptions, Jacob’s criminal trial unfolds like a real-life criminal trial. Andy Barber hires an actual defense attorney to defend Jacob (though he acts as second chair). The attorneys make proper objections. The judge adheres to the rules of evidence. Jacob’s trial – like most real trials – is not explosive. It is not shocking. There is no bombshell witness that one side or the other wasn’t aware of, because in real life, there is the discovery process and witness lists and the fact that the whole system is designed (rather imperfectly, of course) to avoid unfair surprises.
Most of the drama comes from the secondary impact of the trial on the Barber family. Defending Jacob is really more the portrait of a family under extreme duress than anything else. Andy is hell-bent on defending his son and is maniacally convinced that another suspect is the actual killer. His wife, Laurie, veers wildly from maternal protectiveness to horrified wariness that her son might actually have committed the crime. Jacob – well, Jacob is mostly a cipher. None of Landay’s characters, including Andy, are fully formed, but Jacob gets the least attention. (This is necessary to built tension, and also because teenagers are inherently uninteresting and not worth thinking about). Despite a rather forgettable dramatis personae, Landay does a good job detailing the toll that Jacob’s legal predicament – both the buildup and the trial itself – has on the Barber family. Probably the book’s most powerful scene is set in a grocery store, when the Barbers find themselves one aisle over from the family of the murdered schoolboy.
This isn’t a novel that is going to wow you with ornate prose or acute character observations. The writing – through Andy’s narration – is conversational. At its best, it is propulsive – storytelling that keeps you up at night saying “just one more page.” The dialogue is forgettable, either courtroom legalese or melodramatic family interactions. As I mentioned previously, Defending Jacob tries to tackle some ambitious themes. But when it comes down to it, the novel lives and dies on its story mechanics. Landay came up with a great idea; everything else comes down to execution. With this kind of book, if you stick the landing, it makes up for all other sins.
Defending Jacob is similar to all other legal potboilers in that we are led through a series of twists and turns to the surprise ending. In this book, due to its parallel storylines (Jacob’s trial and the grand jury of Andy), you get two twists for the price of one. Typically, I’m not the type of reader who enjoys these kinds of books – the ones that rely on a kicker. (This may be because I am terrible at guessing the ending of things, so no matter what, I’m usually surprised, even if I’m not supposed to be).
What I really liked about Defending Jacob is not the deviousness of the plot swerves. Rather, it was that Landay manages – in the final few pages – a climax that is not only surprising, but surprisingly powerful. It’s a conclusion that lifts Defending Jacob into a different plane. It’s not a great novel. But it’s not just a decent legal thriller either. It’s somewhere in the middle, which is pretty good for a mass market impulse buy at CVS, purchased while wearing sweatpants on a Tuesday night five minutes before the pharmacy closes.