by Jodi Picoult
Emma turns, her face lighting up. --Jacob? Did you say something?||
I get the sense that, if he has been saying anything, it's not a lot. He nods, his mouth working for a moment before another syllable is forced out. --I want ...||
--What do you want, baby? I'll get it for you.||
--I want to watch.||
Emma faces me, her eyebrows raised in a question.
--Not possible,|| I tell her flatly. --He can stay in the house, but he can't be anywhere near the room.||
--Can I speak to you for a moment?|| she asks evenly, and she walks into Jacob's bedroom, leaving him in the hallway. --Do you have any idea what kind of hell it is to watch your child become completely unresponsive?||
--No, but--||
--Well, this is the second time for me. I haven't even been able to get him out of his bed,|| she says. --And as I recall, the last thing you said to me was that I should trust you. I did, and you stabbed me in the back and arrested my son, after I offered him up to you on a silver platter. From where I'm standing, my son wouldn't be hanging on by a thread if it weren't for you. So if watching you load up your goddamn boxes with his possessions is what brings him back to the world of the living, then I would hope for the sake of common decency you'd simply let him.||
By the time she finishes, her eyes are glittering and her cheeks are flushed. I open my mouth, about to talk about search and seizure cases and the Supreme Court, but then change my mind. --Jacob?|| I stick my head out the door. --Come on in.||
He sits down on the bed, and Emma leans against the doorjamb with her arms crossed. --I'm, uh, just going to take a look around,|| I say.
Jacob Hunt is a wicked neat freak. One weekend with Sasha and I'm forever finding tiny socks wedged into the couch or cereal underfoot in the kitchen or books left strewn across the living room floor. But something tells me this isn't the case with Jacob. His bed is made with military precision. His closet is so organized it looks like an advertisement.
I'd assume he has a full-blown case of OCD, except for the fact that there are exceptions to the rule: his math notebook, lying open, is a disaster--loose-leaf pages haphazardly stuffed, papers falling out, handwriting so messy it looks like modern art. The same goes for a bulletin board on one wall, which is overstuffed with papers and pictures and photographs overlapping each other. Dirty dishes and mugs litter his desk.
Directly across from the desk is a small table with an overturned fish tank that has been kitted out like a fuming chamber. Jacob sees me looking at it. --What do you get prints off?|| I ask.
--Don't answer that, Jacob,|| Emma interjects.
--Toothbrushes,|| he replies. --Mugs. I once got a great partial off a manila folder with magnetic powder.||
His mother and I both stare at him--Emma because he's probably said more in the last second than in the past three days; and I because there are CSIs who don't even know that technique for getting prints off a porous surface.
I pick up the trash bin beside the desk and begin to leaf through it. There are several drafts of an English essay. There's a gum wrapper. What's extraordinary about the contents is not what they are but how they are: instead of being balled up or crumpled, each piece of garbage has been folded into crisp eighths. Even the tiny gum wrapper. The trash is stacked, like laundry.
The first item I take is Jacob's police scanner--now I know how he managed to get to the crime scene for the hypothermic guy. Jacob's hand begins to flap a little harder.
--That ... that's mine.||
Emma puts her hand on his shoulder. --Remember what I said?||
I quickly procure the items that are in the fuming chamber: a mug, a mirror, the tank itself. I look under Jacob's bed, but there is only a pair of slippers and two plastic bins--one filled with back issues of the Journal of Forensic Sciences, the other filled with Legos. From his bookshelf I take the complete DVD series of CrimeBusters, and then I see the composition notebooks. He told me he has more than a hundred, and he wasn't lying. I pull the first one down.
--You can't have those,|| Jacob cries.
--I'm sorry, Jacob.|| Episode 74, I read. Silent Witness, 12/4/08.
Two teenagers out for a joyride run over a deaf man, who turns out to be already dead.
This is followed by a list of evidence. Solved, it reads, 0:36.
Emma has her head bent close to Jacob's now. She's murmuring, but I cannot hear the words. Turning my back to them, I flip through the entries. Some are repeats of episodes; Jacob seems to have written about each of them when they aired, even if he'd seen the show before. Some of them have the disclaimer that Jacob could not solve the crime before the TV detectives did.
There are kidnappings. Stabbings. Cult ritual murders. One episode catches my eye: Joffrey puts on her boyfriend's boots and leaves prints in the mud behind the house to mislead investigators.
Stuck between the pages is a pink index card, and as I scan it I realize this is a note Jacob has written to himself:
I am miserable. I can't stand it anymore.
The people who supposedly care don't.
I get my hopes up and everyone eventually lets me down. I finally know what's wrong with me: all of you. All of you who think I'm just an autistic kid, so who really cares? Well, I hate you. I hate all of you. I hate how I cry at night because of you. But you are just people.
JUST PEOPLE.
So why do you make me feel so small?
Was this written a week ago, a month, a year? Was it in response to bullying in school? To a teacher's criticism? To something Jess Ogilvy said?
It could point to motive. I quickly close the journal and stick the notebook into the box. You can't see that index card anymore, but I know it's there, and it feels too private, too raw to be considered simply evidence. All of a sudden I am flooded by the image of Jacob Hunt huddled in this room after a whole day of trying unsuccessfully to blend in with the hundreds of kids in his school. Who, out of all of us, hasn't felt marginalized at some point? Who hasn't felt like they don't belong?
Who hasn't tried ... and failed?
I had been the fat kid, the one who was stuck in the soccer goal during gym class and cast as a rock in the school play. I'd been called Doughboy, Lardass, Earthquake Boy, you name it. In eighth grade, after a graduation ceremony, a kid had come up to me. I never knew your real name was Rich, he'd said.
When my dad got laid off and we had to move to Vermont for his new job, I spent the summer reinventing myself. I ran--a half mile the first day, and then a whole one, and gradually more. I ate only green things. I did five hundred sit-ups every morning before I even brushed my teeth. By the time I got to my new school, I was a totally different guy, and I never looked back.
Jacob Hunt can't exercise himself into a new personality. He can't move to another school district and start over. He'll always be the kid with Asperger's.
Unless, instead, he makes himself the kid who killed Jess Ogilvy.
--I'm all done here,|| I say, stacking the boxes. --I just need you to sign the receipt for the property so you can eventually get it back.||
--And when might that be?||
--When the DA's done with it.|| I turn to say good-bye to Jacob, but he's staring at the empty spot where his fuming chamber was located.
Emma walks me downstairs. --You're wasting your time,|| she says. --My son isn't a murderer.||
I push the inventory receipt toward her, silent.
--If I were Jess's parents, I'd want to know the police were actively trying to find the person who killed my child instead of basing their entire case on the ridiculous notion that an autistic boy with no criminal history--a boy who loved Jess--killed her.|| She signs the receipt I give her and then opens the front door. --Are you even listening?|| she says, her voice rising. --You've got the wrong person.||
There have been times--albeit very rarely--that I wished this were the case. When I snapped handcuffs on an abused wife who'd gone after her husband with a knife, for example. Or whe
n I arrested a guy who'd broken into a grocery store to steal formula for his baby because he couldn't afford it. But just like then, I can't contradict the evidence that's in front of me now. I may feel bad for someone who's committed a crime, but that doesn't mean he hasn't committed it.
I pick up the boxes and, at the last moment, turn back. --I'm sorry,|| I say. --For what it's worth ... I'm really sorry.||
Her eyes flash. --You're sorry? For what, exactly? Lying to me? Lying to Jacob?
Throwing him into jail without giving any thought to his special needs--||
--Technically, the judge did that--||
--How dare you,|| Emma shouts. --How dare you come in here as if you're on our side, and then turn around and do this to my son!||
--There are no sides,|| I yell back at her. --There's just a girl, who died alone and scared and who was found a week later frozen solid. Well, I've got a girl, too. What if it had been her?|| By now my face is flushed. I am inches away from Emma. --I didn't do this to your son,|| I say, more softly. --I did this for my daughter.||
The last thing I see is Emma Hunt's jaw drop. She doesn't speak to me as I heft the boxes more firmly in my arms and walk down her driveway, but then, it's never the differences between people that surprise us. It's the things that, against all odds, we have in common.
Jacob
My mother and I are riding in the car to the office of the state psychiatrist, who happens to work out of a hospital. I am nervous about this because I don't like hospitals. I have been in them twice: once when I fell out of a tree and broke my arm, and once when Theo got hurt after I knocked over his high chair. What I remember about hospitals is that they smell white and stale, the lights are too bright, and every time I've been in one I've either been in pain or been ashamed or maybe both.
This makes my fingers start to flutter on my leg, and I stare at them as if they are disconnected from my body. For the past three days, I've been doing better. I'm taking all my supplements again and my shots, and it hasn't felt quite as much as if I'm constantly swimming in a bubble of water that makes it harder to understand what people say or to focus on them.
Believe me, I know it's not normal to flap my hands or walk in circles or repeat words over and over, but sometimes it's the easiest way to make myself feel better. It's like a steam engine, really: Fluttering my hands in front of my face or against my leg is my exhaust valve, and maybe it looks weird, but then again, just compare it to the folks who turn to alcohol or porn to alleviate pressures.
I haven't been out of the house since I left the jail. Even school is off-limits now, so my mother has found textbooks and is home-schooling both Theo and me. It's sort of nice, actually, not having to stress out about the next time I will be accosted by another student and will have to interact; or if a teacher will say something I don't understand; or if I'll need to use my COP pass and look like a total loser in front of my peers. I wonder why we never thought of this before: learning without socialization. It's every Aspie's dream.
Every now and then, my mother looks at me in the rearview mirror. --You remember what's going to happen, right?|| she asks. --Dr. Cohn is going to ask you questions. All you have to do is tell the truth.||
Here's the other reason I'm nervous: the last time I went off to answer questions without my mother, I wound up in jail.
--Jacob,|| my mother says, --you're stimming.||
I slap my free hand over the one that's fluttering.
When we get to the hospital, I walk with my head ducked down so that I do not have to see sick people. I have not vomited since I was six years old; the very thought of it makes me sweat. Once when Theo got the flu, I had to take my sleeping bag and quilt and stay in the garage because I was afraid I'd catch it. What if coming here for a stupid competency interview turns out to be much worse than anyone anticipates?
--I don't understand why he couldn't come to us,|| I mutter.
--Because he's not on our side,|| my mother says.
The way competency works is this:
1. The State of Vermont hires a psychiatrist who will interview me and tell the judge everything the DA wants to hear.
2. My lawyer will counter this with Dr. Moon, my own psychiatrist, who will tell the judge everything Oliver Bond wants to hear.
Frankly, I don't see the point, since we all know this is how it's going to shake out, anyway.
Dr. Martin Cohn's office is not as nice as Dr. Moon's. Dr. Moon decorates in shades of blue, which have been proven to enhance relaxation. Dr. Martin Cohn decorates in industrial gray. His secretary's desk looks like the one my math teacher uses. --Can I help you?|| she asks.
My mother steps forward. --Jacob Hunt is here to see Dr. Cohn.||
--You can go right in.|| She points to another doorway.
Dr. Moon has that, too. You go into her office through one door and exit through the other, so that no one who's waiting will see you. I know it's supposed to be about privacy, but if you ask me, it's like the psychiatrists themselves are buying into that stupid belief that therapy is something to hide.
I put my hand on the doorknob and take a deep breath. This time you're coming back, I promise myself.
A joke:
A guy is flying in a hot-air balloon and he's lost. He lowers himself over a cornfield and calls out to a woman. --Can you tell me where I am and where I'm headed?||
--Sure,|| this woman says. --You are at 41 degrees, 2 minutes, and 14 seconds north, 144 degrees, 4 minutes, 19 seconds east; you're at an altitude of 762 meters above sea level, and right now you're hovering, but you were on a vector of 234 degrees at 12 meters per second.||
--Amazing! Thanks! By the way, do you have Asperger's syndrome?||
--I do!|| the woman replies. --How did you know?||
--Because everything you said is true, it's much more detail than I need, and you told me in a way that's of no use to me at all.||
The woman frowns. --Huh. Are you a psychiatrist?||
--I am,|| the man says. --But how the heck could you tell?||
--You don't know where you are. You don't know where you're headed. You got where you are by blowing hot air. You put labels on people after asking a few questions, and you're in exactly the same spot you were in five minutes ago, but now, somehow, it's my fault!||
Dr. Martin Cohn is smaller than I am and has a beard. He wears glasses without rims, and as soon as I come into the room, he walks toward me. --Hello,|| he says. --I'm Dr. Cohn.
Take a seat.||
The chairs are metal frames with pleather cushions. One is orange, and that's totally not happening. The other is gray and has a sunken circle in the middle, as if the cushion has simply given out.
When I was younger and I was asked to take a seat, I'd lift it up. Now I know that it means I am supposed to sit down. There are many statements that do not mean what they say: Mark my words. Hang around. Just a second. Get off my back.
The psychiatrist takes out a pen from his pocket. He sits down, too, and puts his yellow pad on his lap. --What's your name?||
--Jacob Thomas Hunt,|| I say.
--How old are you, Jacob?||
--Eighteen.||
--Do you know why you're here?||
--Don't you?||
He writes something down on his paper. --Do you know that you've been charged with a crime?||
--Yes. Thirteen VSA, section 2301. Murder committed by means of poison, or by lying in wait, or by willful, deliberate and premeditated killing, or committed in perpetrating or attempting to perpetrate arson, sexual assault, aggravated sexual assault, robbery or burglary, shall be murder in the first degree. All other kinds of murder shall be murder in the second degree. ||
I would have thought reciting the entire statute would impress Dr. Cohn, but he doesn't register any emotion.
Maybe he's got Asperger's, too.
--Do you understand whether that's a major or minor charge, Jacob?||
--It's a felony that carries a minimum sentence of thirty-fiv
e years to life in prison.||
Dr. Cohn looks up over his glasses. --What about probation?|| he asks. --Do you know what that is?||
--It's when you have to check in with a court officer for a certain amount of time,|| I say. --You have to follow rules and give reports, you have to have a job, you have to live somewhere where they know your address, you have to stay out of trouble, you have to not drink alcohol ...||
--Right,|| Dr. Cohn says. --Tell me, Jacob, what should your lawyer focus on in order to defend you?||
I shrug. --My innocence.||
--Do you understand what a plea of guilty or not guilty means?||
--Yes. Guilty means that you admit you committed the crime and that you need to be punished for it. Not guilty means you don't admit you committed the crime and you don't think you should be punished for it ... but it's not the same as being innocent, because in our legal system you get found guilty or not guilty. You don't get found innocent, even if you are, like me.||
Dr. Cohn stares at me. --What's a plea bargain?||
--When the prosecutor talks to the lawyer and they agree on a sentence, and then they both go before the judge to see if the judge will accept that, too. It means you don't have to have a trial, because you've admitted to the crime by taking the plea.||
These are all easy questions, because the end of every CrimeBusters episode is a trial, where the evidence is relayed to a judge and jury. If I'd known the questions were going to be this simple, I wouldn't have been so nervous. Instead, I'd been expecting Dr.
Cohn to ask me about Jess. About what happened that afternoon.
And of course I couldn't tell him, which would mean I'd have to lie, and that would be breaking the rules.
--What's an insanity plea?|| Dr. Cohn asks.
--When you claim you're not guilty because you were dissociated from reality at the time you committed the crime and can't be held legally responsible for your actions. Like Edward Norton in Primal Fear. ||
--Great flick,|| the psychiatrist says. --Jacob, if your lawyer thinks you shouldn't testify, would you agree to that?||
--Why wouldn't I want to testify? I'm going to tell the truth.||
--When can you speak out in the courtroom?||
--I can't. My lawyer told me not to talk to anyone.||
