The Jodi Picoult Collection #2

by Jodi Picoult

  But there is no bullet, no sudden death. There are only the eyes of everyone in that courtroom, burning like acid. For their viewing pleasure, I start to bite my nails, twitch in my seat. Nervousness can pass for crazy.

  “Where is Caleb?” I whisper to Fisher.

  “I have no idea, but he came to my office this morning with the retainer. Keep your head straight.” Before I can answer, the judge raps his gavel.

  I do not know this judge. Presumably, they’ve brought him in from Lewiston. I do not know the AG either, sitting in my usual spot at the prosecution desk. He is enormous, bald, fearsome. He glances at me only once, and then his eyes move on—he has already dismissed me for crossing over to the dark side.

  What I want to do at that moment is walk over to this prosecutor and tug on his sleeve. Don’t judge me, I’d say, until you’ve seen the view from here. You are only as invincible as your smallest weakness, and those are tiny indeed—the length of a sleeping baby’s eyelash, the span of a child’s hand. Life turns on a dime, and—it turns out—so does one’s conscience.

  “Is the state ready to proceed?” the judge asks.

  The assistant attorney general nods. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Is the defense attorney ready to proceed?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Fisher says.

  “Will the defendant please come forward?”

  I don’t stand, at first. It is not a conscious rebuff; I’m just not used to being the one who rises at this point in the arraignment. The bailiff hauls me out of my seat, wrenching my arm in the process.

  Fisher Carrington remains in his chair, and my whole body grows cold. This is his chance to insult me. When a defendant stands and the attorney stays seated, it is a clear sign to insiders that he doesn’t give a damn about the client. As I lift my chin and turn away, resolved, Fisher slowly unfolds from his chair. He is a solid presence along my right side, a fortifying wall. He turns to me and raises an eyebrow, questioning my faith.

  “Please state your name?”

  I take a deep breath. “Nina Maurier Frost.”

  “Will the clerk please read the charge?” the judge asks.

  “The state of Maine hereby charges that on or about the thirtieth day of October, 2001, the defendant, Nina Maurier Frost, did slay and murder Glen Szyszynski in Biddeford, in the County of York, Maine. How do you plead?”

  Fisher smooths a hand down his tie. “We’re going to enter a plea of not guilty, Your Honor. And I’m putting the court and state on notice that we may be entering a plea of not guilty by reason of insanity at a later date.”

  None of this surprises the judge. It does not surprise me either, although Fisher and I have not discussed an insanity defense. “Mr. Brown,” the judge says, “when would you like to schedule a Harnish hearing?”

  This is expected, too. In the past I have seen State v. Harnish as a godsend, keeping felons temporarily off the street while I’m working to permanently lock them up. After all, do you really want someone who’s committed a capital crime walking free?

  Then again, in the past, I have not been the criminal in question.

  Quentin Brown looks at me, then turns to the judge. His eyes, obsidian, do not give anything away. “Your Honor, at this time, due to the severity of the crime and the open nature in which it was committed in this very courtroom, the state is asking for bail in the amount of $500,000 with surety.”

  The judge blinks at him. Stunned, Fisher turns to Brown. I want to stare at him, too, but I can’t, because then he will know that I’m sane enough to understand this unexpected gift. “Am I understanding, Mr. Brown, that the state is waiving its right for a Harnish hearing?” the judge clarifies. “That you wish to set bail in this case, as opposed to denying it?”

  Brown nods tightly. “May we approach, please?”

  He takes a step forward, and so does Fisher. Out of long habit, I take a step forward too, but the bailiffs standing behind me grab my arms.

  The judge puts his hand over the microphone so that the cameras cannot hear the conversation, but I can, even from a few feet away. “Mr. Brown, I understood that your evidence in this case was rather good.”

  “Judge, to tell you the truth, I don’t know whether she has a successful insanity plea or not . . . but I can’t in good faith ask this court to hold her without bail. She’s been a prosecutor for ten years. I don’t think she’s going to flee, and I don’t think she’s a risk to society. With all due respect, Your Honor, I’ve run that past my boss and her boss, and I’m asking the court to please do this without making it an issue for the press to devour.”

  Fisher immediately turns with a gracious smile. “Your Honor, I’d like to let Mr. Brown know that my client and I appreciate his sensitivity. This is a difficult case for everyone involved.”

  Me, I feel like dancing. To have the Harnish hearing waived is a tiny miracle. “The state is asking for bail in the amount of $500,000. What are the defendant’s ties to this state, Mr. Carrington?” the judge asks.

  “Your Honor, she’s a lifelong resident of Maine. She has a small child here. The defendant would be happy to turn in her passport and agree to not leave the state.”

  The judge nods. “Given the fact that she’s worked as a prosecutor for so long, as a condition of the defendant’s bail I am also going to bar her from speaking with any employees currently working at the York County District Attorney’s office until the completion of this case, to ensure that she doesn’t have any access to information.”

  “That’s fine, Your Honor,” Fisher says on my behalf.

  Quentin Brown jumps in. “In addition to bail, Judge, we’re asking for a special condition of a psychiatric evaluation.”

  “We have no problem with that,” Fisher answers. “We’d like one of our own, with a private psychiatrist.”

  “Does it matter to the state whether a private or a state psychiatrist is used, Mr. Brown?” the judge asks.

  “We want a state psychiatrist.”

  “Fine. I’ll make that a condition of bail, as well.” The judge writes something down in his file. “But I don’t believe $500,000 is necessary to keep this woman in the state. I’m setting bail at $100,000 with surety.”

  What happens next is a whirlwind: hands on my arms, pushing me back in the direction of the holding cell; Fisher’s face telling me he’ll call Caleb about the bail; reporters stampeding up the aisles and into the hall to phone their affiliates. I am left in the company of a deputy sheriff so thin his belt is notched like a pegboard. He locks me into the cell and then buries his face in Sports Illustrated.

  I’m going to get out. I’m going to be back home, having lunch with Nathaniel, just like I told Fisher Carrington yesterday.

  Hugging my knees to my chest, I start to cry. And let myself believe I just might get away with this.

  • • •

  The day it first happened, they had been learning about the Ark. It was this huge boat, Mrs. Fiore told Nathaniel and the others. Big enough to fit all of them, their parents, and their pets. She gave everyone a crayon and a piece of paper to draw their favorite animal. “Let’s see what we come up with,” she had said, “and we’ll show them all to Father Glen before his story.”

  Nathaniel sat next to Amelia Underwood that day, a girl who always smelled of spaghetti sauce and the stuff that gets caught in bathtub drains. “Did elephants go on the boat?” she asked, and Mrs. Fiore nodded. “Everything.”

  “Raccoons?”

  “Yes.”

  “Narwhals?” That from Oren Whitford, who was already reading chapter books when Nathaniel wasn’t even sure which way the loop went on a b and a d.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Cockroaches?”

  “Unfortunately,” Mrs. Fiore said.

  Phil Filbert raised his hand. “How about the holy goats?”

  Mrs. Fiore frowned. “That’s the Holy Ghost, Philip, which is something totally different.” But then she reconsidered. “I suppose it was there too,
though.”

  Nathaniel raised his hand. The teacher smiled at him. “What animal are you thinking of?”

  But he wasn’t thinking of an animal at all. “I need to go pee,” he said, and all the other kids laughed. Heat spread across his face, and he grabbed the block of wood that Mrs. Fiore gave him for a bathroom pass and darted out the door. The bathroom was at the end of the hall, and Nathaniel lingered in there, flushing the toilet a bunch of times just to hear the sound of it; washing his hands with so much soap bubbles rose in the sink like a mountain.

  He was in no rush to get back to Sunday school. In the first place, everyone would still be laughing at him, and in the second place, Amelia Underwood stank worse than the little cakes inside the bathroom urinals. So he wandered down the hall a little farther, to Father Glen’s office. The door was usually locked, but right now, there was a crack just big enough for someone like Nathaniel to slip through. Without hesitation, he crept inside.

  The room smelled of lemons, just like the main part of the church. Nathaniel’s mother said that was because a lot of ladies volunteered to scrub the pews until they were shining, so he figured they probably came into the office and scrubbed too. There were no pews, though—only row after row of bookshelves. There were so many letters jammed onto the spines of the books that it made Nathaniel dizzy to try to sort them all out. He turned his attention instead to a picture hanging on the wall, of a man riding a white stallion, and spearing a dragon through its heart.

  Maybe dragons hadn’t fit onto the Ark, which was why no one ever saw them anymore.

  “St. George was awfully brave,” a voice said behind him, and Nathaniel realized he was not alone. “And you?” the priest asked with a slow smile. “Are you brave too?”

  • • •

  If Nina had been his wife, Patrick would have sat in the front row of the gallery. He would have made eye contact with her the second she walked through the door of the courtroom, to let her know that no matter what, he was there for her. He wouldn’t have needed someone to come to his house and spoon-feed him the outcome of the arraignment.

  By the time Caleb answers the doorbell, Patrick is furious at him all over again.

  “She’s out on bail,” Patrick says without preamble. “You’ll have to get a check for ten thousand dollars to the courthouse.” He stares Caleb down, his hands jammed into the pockets of his jacket. “I assume you can do that. Or were you planning to leave your wife high and dry twice in one day?”

  “You mean the way she left me?” Caleb retorts. “I couldn’t go. I had no one to watch Nathaniel.”

  “That’s bullshit. You could have asked me. In fact, I’ll watch him right now. You go ahead, get Nina. She’s waiting.” He crosses his arms, calling Caleb’s bluff.

  “I’m not going,” Caleb says, and in less than a breath Patrick pins him against the doorframe.

  “What the fuck is the matter with you?” he grits out. “She needs you now.”

  Caleb, bigger and stronger, pushes back. He balls a fist, sends Patrick flying into the hedge on the path. “Don’t you tell me what my wife needs.” In the background is the sound of a tiny voice, calling for his father. Caleb turns, walks inside, closes the door behind him.

  Sprawled in the bushes, Patrick tries to catch his breath. He gets to his feet slowly, extricating leaves from his clothing. What is he supposed to do now? He cannot leave Nina in jail, and he doesn’t have the cash to bail her out himself.

  Suddenly the door opens again. Caleb stands there, a check in hand. Patrick takes it and Caleb nods in gratitude, neither one alluding to the fact that only minutes ago, they were willing to kill. This is the currency of apology; a deal transacted in the name of the woman who has unbalanced both of their lives.

  • • •

  I’m ready to give Caleb a piece of my mind for missing the arraignment, but it’s going to have to wait until after I’ve held Nathaniel so close that he starts to melt into me. Fidgety, I wait for the deputy to unlock the holding cell and escort me into the anteroom of the sheriff’s department. There is a familiar face there, but it’s the wrong one.

  “I posted bail,” Patrick says. “Caleb gave me a check.”

  “He . . .” I start to speak, and then remember who is standing in front of me. It may be Patrick, but still. I turn to him, wide-eyed, as he leads me out the service entrance of the courthouse, to avoid the press. “Is he really dead? Do you promise me he’s really dead?”

  Patrick grabs my arm and turns me toward him. “Stop.” Pain pulls his features tight. “Please, Nina. Just stop.”

  He knows; of course he knows. This is Patrick. In a way it is a relief to no longer have to pretend with him; to have the opportunity to talk to someone who will understand. He leads me through the bowels of the building to a service entrance, and ducks me into his waiting Taurus. The parking lot is filled with news vans, satellite dishes mounted on top like strange birds. Patrick tosses something heavy in my lap, a thick edition of the Boston Globe.

  ABOVE THE LAW, the headline reads. And a subtitle: Priest Murdered in Maine; A District Attorney’s Biblical Justice. There is a full-color photo of me being tackled by Patrick and the bailiffs. In the right-hand corner is Father Szyszynski, lying in a pool of his own blood. I trace Patrick’s grainy profile. “You’re famous,” I say softly.

  Patrick doesn’t answer. He stares out at the road, focused on what lies ahead.

  I used to be able to talk to him about anything. That cannot have changed, just because of what I’ve done. But as I look out the window I see it is a different world—two-legged cats prance down the street, Gypsies twirl up driveways, zombies knock on doors. Somehow I’ve forgotten about Halloween; today nobody is the person he was just a day ago. “Patrick,” I begin.

  He cuts me off with a slash of his hand. “Nina, it’s already bad enough. Every time I think about what you did, I remember the night before, at Tequila Mockingbird. What I said to you.”

  People like that, they ought to be shot. I hadn’t remembered his words until now. Or had I? I reach across the seat to touch his shoulder, to reassure him that this isn’t his fault, but he recoils from me. “Whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong. I—”

  Suddenly Patrick wrenches the car to the shoulder of the road. “Please, don’t tell me anything. I’m going to have to testify during your trial.”

  But I have always confided in Patrick. To crawl back behind my shell of insanity seems even crazier; a costume two sizes too small. I turn with a question in my eyes, and as usual, he responds before I can even put it into words. “Talk to Caleb instead,” he says, and he pulls back into the midday trickle of traffic.

  • • •

  Sometimes when you pick up your child you can feel the map of your own bones beneath your hands, or smell the scent of your skin in the nape of his neck. This is the most extraordinary thing about motherhood—finding a piece of yourself separate and apart that all the same you could not live without. It is the feeling you get when you place the last scrap of the thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle; it is the last footfall in a photo-finish race; exhilaration and homecoming and stunned wonder, caught between those stubby fingers and the spaces where baby teeth have given way. Nathaniel barrels into my arms with the force of a hurricane, and just as easily sweeps me off my feet. “Mommy!”

  Oh, I think, this is why.

  Over my son’s head, I notice Caleb. He stands at a distance, his face impassive. I say, “Thank you for the check.”

  “You’re famous,” Nathaniel tells me. “Your picture was in the paper.”

  “Buddy,” Caleb asks, “you want to pick out a video and watch it in my room?”

  Nathaniel shakes his head. “Can Mommy come?”

  “In a little while. I have to talk to Daddy first.”

  So we go through the motions of parenting; Caleb settling Nathaniel on the great ocean of our bedspread, while I push the buttons that set a Disney tape into motion. It seems natural that while he waits
here, entranced by fantasy, Caleb and I go into his little boy’s room to make sense of what’s real. We sit on the narrow bed, surrounded by a bevy of appliquéd Amazon tree frogs, a rainbow of poisonous color. Overhead, a caterpillar mobile drifts without a care in the world. “What the hell were you doing, Nina?” Caleb says, the opening thrust. “What were you thinking?”

  “Have the police talked to you? Are you in trouble?”

  “Why would I be?”

  “Because the police don’t know you weren’t planning this with me.”

  Caleb folds in on himself. “Is that what you did? Plan it?”

  “I planned to make it look unplanned,” I explain. “Caleb, he hurt Nathaniel. He hurt him. And he was going to get away with it.”

  “You don’t know that—”

  “I do. I see it every day. But this time, it was my baby. Our baby. How many years do you think Nathaniel will have nightmares about this? How many years will he be in therapy? Our son is never going to be the way he was. Szyszynski took away a piece of him that we’ll never get back. So why shouldn’t I have done the same to him?” Do unto others, I think, as you would have them do unto you.

  “But Nina. You . . .” He cannot even say it.

  “When you found out, when Nathaniel said his name, what was the first thought that ran through your mind?”

  Caleb looks into his lap. “I wanted to kill him.”

  “Yes.”

  He shakes his head. “Szyszynski was headed to a trial. He would have been punished for what he did.”

  “Not enough. There is no sentence a judge could pass down that would make up for this and you know it. I did what any parent would want to do. I just have to look crazy to get away with it.”