House Rules

by Jodi Picoult

  --So basically you're looking for a line of credit,|| Abigail says. --That means you only pay us back for the portion you use.||

  Well, that sounds reasonable.

  --How long have you lived in your home?|| she asks.

  --Nineteen years.||

  --Do you know how much you owe currently on your mortgage?||

  --Not exactly,|| I say. --But we got the loan here.||

  --Let's look you up,|| Abigail says, and she asks me to spell my name so that she can find me on her computer system. --Your home's worth $300,000, and your first mortgage was for $220,000. Does that sound right?||

  I can't remember. All I can see is the night Henry and I danced through the house that was ours, our bare feet echoing on the wood floor.

  --The way it works, banks lend a portion of the equity of a home, around eighty percent. So that's $240,000. Then we subtract the amount of the first mortgage loan and

  ...|| She looks up from her calculator. --You're talking about a $20,000 line of credit.||

  I stare at her. --That's all?||

  --In today's market, it's important for the client to have a vested interest in the house. Makes them less likely to default on the loan.|| She smiles at me. --Why don't we fill in some of the other blanks here,|| Abigail says. --Starting with your employer?||

  I've read statistics that say references aren't checked more than fifty percent of the time, but surely a bank must fall in the other half. And once they call Tanya and realize I've quit, they'll be wondering how I'm going to pay one mortgage, much less two. Saying I am picking up the slack with self-employment won't help, either. I've been a freelance editor long enough to know that, for institutions like banks and future employers, self-employed translates to --nearly jobless but scraping by.||

  --I'm currently unemployed,|| I say softly.

  Abigail leans back in her chair. --Well,|| she says. --Do you have other sources of income? Rental property? Dividends?||

  --Child support,|| I manage.

  --I'm going to be totally honest with you,|| she says. --It's not likely you'll get a loan without another source of income.||

  I cannot even look at her. --I really, really need the money.||

  --There are other credit sources,|| Abigail says. --Car title loans, loan predators, credit cards--but the interest will kill you in the long run. You're better off asking someone close to you. Is there a family member who might be able to help?||

  But my parents are both gone, and it is a family member I'm trying to help. I'm the one--I'm always the one--who takes care of Jacob when things are falling apart.

  --I wish there was something I could do,|| Abigail says. --Maybe once you get another job ...||

  I mumble my thanks and leave her cubicle while she is still speaking. In the parking lot, I sit in my car for a moment. My breath hangs in the cold air, like thought balloons of all the things I wish I could explain to Abigail LeGris. --I wish there was something I could do, too,|| I say out loud.

  It isn't fair to Jacob or to Oliver, but I don't go right home. Instead, I drive past the elementary school. It's been a long time since I've had reason to go there--after all, my boys are grown now--but in the winter, they flood a front field into an ice rink, and kids bring their skates. During recess, little girls spin in circles on the ice; boys chase hockey pucks from one end to the other.

  I pull over across the street, where I can watch. The kids who are playing outside are tiny--I'd say first or second graders--and it seems impossible that Jacob was ever that small. When he'd been a student here, his aide had taken him onto the ice rink with a pair of borrowed skates and had Jacob push two stack milk crates around. It was the way most toddlers learned to skate, and they'd quickly graduate to the tripod method, where a hockey stick provided a third leg for balance, before feeling confident enough to glide off without any props. But Jacob, he never did get past those milk crates. In skating--as with most physical things--he was clumsy. I remember coming to watch him, and seeing his feet splay out from beneath him, so that he'd land in a heap on the ice. If it wasn't slippery, I wouldn't keep falling, he said to me, apple-cheeked and breathless after recess, as if having something to blame made all the difference.

  A sharp rap at my window makes me jump. I roll it down to find a police officer standing there. --Ma'am,|| he says, --can I help you?||

  --I was just ... I had something in my eye,|| I lie.

  --Well, if you're all right now, I have to ask you to move along. This is a bus zone; you can't stay here.||

  I glance at the kids on the ice again. They look like molecules colliding. --No,|| I say softly. --I can't.||

  When I get back home and open the door, I hear the sound of someone being beaten to a pulp. Unhh. Ow. Ooof. And then, to my horror, Jacob's laughter.

  --Jacob?|| I call, but there's no answer. Still wearing my coat, I rush into the house toward the sounds of the fight.

  Jacob stands--perfectly unharmed--in front of the television in the living room.

  He's holding what looks like a white remote control. Oliver stands beside him, holding a matching remote control. Theo is sprawled behind them on the couch. --You so suck at this,|| he says. --Both of you.||

  --Hello?|| I take a step into the room, but their eyes are all glued to the television. On the screen, two 3-D cartoon figures are boxing. I watch as Jacob moves his remote control, and the figure on the screen swings his right arm and knocks down the other character.

  --Ha!|| Jacob exclaims. --I knocked you out.||

  --Not yet,|| Oliver says, and he swings his arm without looking first, hitting me.

  --Ouch,|| I say, rubbing my shoulder.

  --Oh, jeez, sorry,|| Oliver says, lowering his remote control. --I didn't see you there.||

  --Obviously.||

  --Mom,|| Jacob says, his face animated in a way I haven't seen in weeks, --this is the coolest thing. You can golf and play tennis and bowl--||

  --And assault people,|| I say.

  --Technically, it's boxing,|| Oliver interjects.

  --And where did this come from?||

  --Oh, I brought it over. I mean, everyone likes playing the Wii.||

  I stare at him. --So you didn't think there was anything wrong with bringing a violent video game system into my house without asking my permission first?||

  Oliver shrugs. --Would you have said yes?||

  --No!||

  --I rest my case.|| He grins. --Besides, we're not playing Call of Duty, Emma. We're just boxing. It's a sport. ||

  --An Olympic sport,|| Jacob adds.

  Oliver tosses his remote to Theo. --Take over for me,|| he instructs, and he walks me into the kitchen. --So how was your errand?||

  --It was ...|| I start to answer but become distracted by the state of the kitchen. I missed it when I first ran through, trying to find the source of the moans and groans I was hearing, but now I see that pots and pans are crammed into the sink, and nearly every mixing bowl we own is stacked on the counter. A pan still sits on the range. --What happened here?||

  --I'm going to clean up,|| Oliver promises. --I just got distracted playing with Theo and Jake.||

  --Jacob,|| I correct automatically. --He doesn't like nicknames.||

  --He didn't seem to mind when I called him that,|| Oliver says. He crosses in front of me to the oven and punches buttons to turn it off before grabbing a rainbow pot holder that Theo made me once for Christmas when he was small. --Have a seat. I saved you some lunch.||

  I sink into a chair--not because he told me to but because I honestly cannot remember the last time someone cooked for me, instead of the other way around. He transfers the warmed food to a plate he removes from the refrigerator. When Oliver leans forward to set it in front of me, I can smell his shampoo--like fresh-cut grass and pine trees.

  There is an omelet with Swiss cheese. Pineapple. Corn bread. And on a separate plate, yellow cake.

  I look up at him. --What is this?||

  --It's from one of your mi
xes,|| he says. --Gluten-free. But the icing Jake and I made from scratch.||

  --I wasn't talking about the cake.||

  Oliver sits down at the kitchen table and reaches across to snag a piece of pineapple off the plate. --It's Yellow Wednesday, right?|| he says, matter-of-fact. --Now eat it, before the omelet gets cold.||

  I take a bite, and then another. I eat the whole block of corn bread before I realize how hungry I am. Oliver watches me, grinning, and then bounces up just like his avatar did on the television screen after Jacob decked him. He opens the refrigerator. --Lemonade?|| he asks.

  I set down my fork. --Oliver, listen.||

  --You don't have to thank me,|| he answers. --Really. This was way more fun for me than reading discovery.||

  --There's something I have to tell you.|| I wait for him to sit down again. --I don't know how I'm going to pay you.||

  --Don't worry. My babysitting fees are pretty cheap.||

  --I'm not talking about that.||

  He looks away from me. --We'll figure something out.||

  --How?|| I demand.

  --I don't know. Let's just get through the trial and then we can sort it out--||

  --No.|| My voice falls like an ax. --I don't want your charity.||

  --Good, because I can't afford to give it,|| Oliver says. --Maybe you can do some paralegal work for me or editing or something.||

  --I don't know anything about law.||

  --That makes two of us,|| he replies, and then he grins. --Kidding.||

  --I'm serious. I'm not going to let you try this case if we can't work out some kind of payment schedule.||

  --There is one thing you could help me out with,|| Oliver admits. He looks like a cat that's devoured the whole carton of half-and-half. Like a guy waiting under the covers, watching a woman undress.

  Where the hell did that thought come from?

  Suddenly, my cheeks are burning. --I hope you aren't about to suggest that we--||

  --Play a game of virtual tennis?|| Oliver interrupts, and he holds up a small electronic game cartridge he's taken from his pocket. He widens his eyes, all innocence. --What did you think I was going to say?||

  --Just so you know,|| I say, grabbing the cartridge out of his hand, --I have a wicked serve.||

  Oliver

  At the police station, Jacob admitted that chipping Jess Ogilvy's tooth was an accident.

  That he moved her body and set up a crime scene around it.

  Any juror who hears that is going to make the very simple and logical leap that he's confessed to murder. After all, it's not like dead bodies are lying around all over the place to feed the passions of autistic kids who are obsessed with criminology.

  Which is why my best hope of keeping Jacob out of prison for life is to strike that entire police interview before it can be admitted as evidence. In order to do this, we have to have a suppression hearing, which means that--once again--Emma and Jacob and I have to face the judge.

  The only problem is that the last time I had Jacob in a courtroom, things didn't exactly go swimmingly.

  This is why I'm wound tight as a spring beside my client as we watch Helen Sharp lead the detective through a direct examination. --When did you first become involved with this case?|| she asks.

  --On the morning of Wednesday, January thirteenth, I received information that there was a missing person from Jess Ogilvy's boyfriend, Mark Maguire. I investigated, and on January eighteenth, after an extensive search, Ms. Ogilvy's body was found in a culvert. She had died of internal bleeding as the result of a head trauma, had multiple contusions and abrasions, and was wrapped in the defendant's quilt.||

  Jacob furiously writes something down on the pad I've placed in front of him and tips it toward me. He's wrong.

  I take the pad from him, suddenly hopeful. An oversight like this bit of mistaken evidence would be just the kind of detail Jacob might have neglected to mention to anyone. It wasn't your quilt?

  It's not technically internal bleeding, he scrawls. It's blood pooling between the dura that covers the brain and the arachnoid, which is the middle layer of the meninges.

  I roll my eyes. Thanks, Dr. Hunt, I write.

  Jacob frowns. I'm not a doctor, he scribbles.

  --Let's back up a minute,|| Helen says. --Did you speak to the defendant before finding Ms. Ogilvy's body?||

  --Yes. As we went through the victim's calendar, I interviewed everyone who'd come in contact with her on the day she was last seen, and the ones who were supposed to meet with her. Jacob Hunt was due to have a tutoring session with Ms. Ogilvy at 2:35 P.M.

  on the afternoon of her disappearance. I met with him to inquire whether or not that meeting had taken place.||

  --Where did you meet?||

  --At the defendant's home.||

  --Who was present when you got to the house that day?|| Helen asks.

  --Jacob Hunt and his mother. I believe his younger brother was upstairs.||

  --Had you ever met Jacob before this day?||

  --Once,|| the detective says. --He showed up at a crime scene I was working several days earlier.||

  --Did you think he might be a suspect?||

  --No. Other officers had seen him on-site before, too. He liked to show up and offer unsolicited advice about crime scene analysis.|| He shrugs. --I figured he was just a kid who wanted to play cop.||

  --When you first met with Jacob, did anyone tell you he had Asperger's syndrome?||

  --Yes,|| Matson says. --His mother. She said Jacob had a very hard time communicating and that a lot of his behaviors which might look like guilty behavior to an outside observer were actually the symptoms of his autism.||

  --Did she ever tell you that you couldn't speak with her son?||

  --No,|| Matson says.

  --Did the defendant tell you that he didn't want to speak with you?||

  --No.||

  --Did he give you any indication on that first day you met that he didn't understand what you were saying, or who you were?||

  --He knew exactly who I was,|| Matson replies. --He wanted to talk about forensics.||

  --What did you discuss during that initial meeting?||

  --I asked him if he'd seen Jess for his appointment, and he said no. He also told me that he knew Jess's boyfriend, Mark. That was pretty much it. I left my card with his mother and said that she should give a call if anything else came up, or if Jacob remembered something.||

  --How long did this conversation last?||

  --I don't know; all together five minutes maybe?|| Matson says.

  The prosecutor nods. --When did you next learn that Jacob Hunt knew something more about this case?||

  --His mother called and said Jacob had some new information about Jess Ogilvy.

  Apparently he'd forgotten to tell us that, when he was at her house, waiting for her, he tidied up some things and alphabetized the CDs. The victim's boyfriend had mentioned that the CDs had been reorganized, and that made me want to talk to Jacob some more.||

  --Did Jacob's mother tell you he wouldn't understand you if you asked him questions?||

  --She said that he might have trouble understanding questions that were phrased a certain way.||

  --During that second conversation, did Jacob say he didn't want to talk to you, or that he didn't understand your questions?||

  --No.||

  --Did the defendant's mother have to translate for him, or tell you to rephrase your questions?||

  --No.||

  --And how long did this second conversation last?||

  --Ten minutes, tops.||

  --Did you have another conversation with Jacob Hunt?|| Helen asks.

  --Yes, the afternoon after we discovered Jess Ogilvy's body in the culvert.||

  --Where did that conversation with the defendant take place?||

  --The police station.||

  --Why did Jacob come in to speak to you again?||

  --His mother called me,|| Matson says. --She was very upset because she believe
d her son had something to do with the murder of Jess Ogilvy.||

  Suddenly Jacob stands up and faces the gallery, so that he can see Emma. --You thought that?|| he asks, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

  Emma looks like she's been hit in the stomach. She looks at me for help, but before I can do or say anything, the judge smacks his gavel. --Mr. Bond, control your client.||

  Jacob starts flapping his left hand. --I need a sensory break!||

  Immediately, I nod. --Your Honor, we need a recess.||

  --Fine. Take five minutes,|| the judge says, and he leaves the bench.

  The minute he's gone, Emma steps over the bar. --Jacob, listen to me.||

  But Jacob's not listening; he's emitting a high-pitched hum that has Helen Sharp covering her ears. --Jacob,|| Emma repeats, and she puts her hands on either side of his face, forcing him to face her. He closes his eyes.

  --I shot the sheriff,|| Emma sings, --but I didn't shoot the deputy. I shot the sheriff, but I did not shoot the deputy. Reflexes got the better of me ... and what is to be must be.||

  The bailiff standing in the room shoots her a dirty glance, but the tension melts out of Jacob's shoulders. --Every day the bucket a-go a well,|| he sings, in his flat monotone.

  --One day the bottom a-go drop out.||

  --That's it, baby,|| Emma murmurs.

  Helen is watching every move, her mouth slightly agape. --Gee,|| she says, --my kid only knows the words to Candy Man.'||

  --Hell of a song to be singing when you're on trial for murder,|| the bailiff mutters.

  --Do not listen to him,|| Emma says. --You listen to me. I believe you. I believe you didn't do it.||

  Interestingly, she doesn't look Jacob in the eye when she says this. Now, he'd never have noticed--since he's not looking her in the eye, either. But by Emma's own reasoning with the detective, if you assume that someone who doesn't look you in the eye is either lying or on the autism spectrum--and Emma isn't on the autism spectrum--what does that imply?

  Before I can interpret this any further, the judge comes back, and Helen and Rich Matson take their places again. --Your only job here is to stay cool,|| I whisper to Jacob, as I lead him back to the defense table. And then I watch him take a piece of paper, fold it into an accordion pleat, and begin to fan himself.

  --How did Jacob get to the police station?|| Helen asks.

  --His mother brought him down.||