Just then I jacked open my locker and a hundred condoms spilled out. A bunch of guys from the sailing team morphed out of their hiding spots, laughing like hyenas. "Figured you could use a new supply," one of them said.
Well, what was I supposed to do? I smiled.
Before I knew it Julia had taken off. For a girl, she ran goddamn fast. I didn't catch up to her until the school was a distant smudge behind us. "Jewel," I said, although I didn't know what should come after that. It was not the first time I had made a girl cry, but it was the first time it hurt me to do it. "Should I have decked them all? Is that what you want?"
She rounded on me. "What do you tell them about us when you're in the locker room?"
"I don't tell them anything."
"What do you tell your parents about us?"
"I don't," I admitted.
"Fuck you," she said, and she started running again.
The elevator doors open on the third floor, and there's Julia Romano. We stare at each other for a moment, and then Judge gets up and starts wagging his tail. "Going down?"
She steps inside and pushes the button for the lobby, already lit.
But it makes her lean across me, so that I can smell her hair—vanilla and cinnamon. "What are you doing here?" she asks.
"Becoming supremely disappointed in the state of American health care. How about you?"
"Meeting with Kate's oncologist, Dr. Chance."
"I assume that means we still have a lawsuit?"
Julia shakes her head. "I don't know. No one in that family's returning my calls, except for Jesse, and that's strictly hormonal."
"Did you go up to—"
"Kate's room? Yeah. They wouldn't let me in. Something about dialysis."
"They said the same thing to me," I tell her.
"Well, if you talk to her—"
"Look," I interrupt. "I have to assume we still have a hearing in three days until Anna tells me otherwise. If that's the case, you and I really need to sit down and figure out what the hell is going on in this kid's life. Do you want to grab a cup of coffee?"
"No," Julia says, and she starts to leave.
"Stop." When I grasp her arm, she freezes. "I know this is uncomfortable for you. It's uncomfortable for me, too. But just because you and I can't seem to grow up doesn't mean Anna shouldn't have a chance to." This is accompanied by a particularly hangdog look.
Julia folds her arms. "Did you want to write that one down, so you can use it again?"
I burst out laughing. "Jesus, you're tough—"
"Oh, stuff it, Campbell. You're so glib you probably oil your lips every morning."
That conjures all sorts of images for me, but they involve her body parts.
"You're right," she says then.
"Now that I want to write down …" When she starts walking away this time, Judge and I follow.
She heads out of the hospital and down a side street, an alley, and past a tenement before we break into the sunshine again on Mineral Spring Avenue in North Providence. By that time, I'm grateful that my left hand is wrapped tight to the leash of a dog with an excessive amount of teeth. "Chance told me that there's nothing left to do for Kate," Julia tells me.
"You mean other than the kidney transplant."
"No. Here's the incredible thing." She stops walking, plants herself in front of me. "Dr. Chance doesn't think Kate's strong enough."
"And Sara Fitzgerald's pushing for it," I say. "When you think about it, Campbell, you can't blame her logic. If Kate's going to die without the transplant anyway, why not go for it?" We step delicately around a homeless man and his collection of bottles. "Because the transplant involves major surgery for her other daughter," I point out. "And putting Anna's health at risk for a procedure that's not necessary for her seems a little cavalier."
Suddenly Julia comes to a halt in front of a small shack with a hand-painted sign, Luigi Ravioli. It looks like the sort of place they keep dark, so that you don't notice the rats. "Isn't there a Starbucks nearby?" I ask, just as an enormous bald man in a white apron opens the door and nearly knocks Julia over.
"Isobella!" he cries, kissing her on both cheeks. "No, Uncle Luigi, it's Julia."
"Julia?" He pulls back and frowns. "You sure? You ought to cut your hair or something, give us a break."
"You used to get on my case about my hair when it was short."
"We got on your case about your hair because it was pink." He looks at me. "You hungry?"
"We were hoping for some coffee, and a quiet table." He grins. "A quiet table?" Julia sighs. "Not that kind of quiet table."
"Right, right, everything's a big secret. Come in, I'll give you the room in the back." He glances down at Judge. "Dog stays here."
"Dog comes," I respond.
"Not in my restaurant," Luigi insists. "He's a service dog, he can't stay outside."
Luigi leans close, a couple of inches away from my face. "You're blind?"
"Color-blind," I reply. "He tells me when the traffic lights change." Julia's uncle's mouth turns down at the corners. "Everyone's a wiseass today," he says, and then he leads the way.
For weeks, my mother tried to guess the identity of my girlfriend. "It's Bitsy, right?—the one we met on the Vineyard? Or no, wait, it's not Sheila's daughter, the redhead, is it?" I told her over and over it was no one she knew, when what I really meant was that Julia was no one she would recognize.
"I know what's right for Anna," Julia tells me, "but I'm not sure she's mature enough to make her own decisions."
I pick up another piece of antipasto. "If you think she's justified in filing the petition, then what's the conflict?"
"Commitment," Julia says dryly. "Would you like me to define that for you?"
"You know, it's impolite to unsheathe your claws at the dinner table."
"Right now, every time Anna's mom confronts her, she backs off. Every time something happens with Kate, she backs off. And in spite of what she thinks she's capable of, she hasn't made a decision of this magnitude before—considering what the consequences are going to be to her sister."
"What if I told you that by the time we have our hearing, she'll be able to make that decision?"
Julia glances up. "Why are you so sure that'll happen?"
"I'm always sure of myself."
She plucks an olive out of the tray between us. "Yeah," she says quietly. "I remember that."
Although Julia must have had her suspicions, I didn't tell her about my parents, my house. As we drove into Newport in my Jeep, I pulled into the driveway of a huge brick mansion. "Campbell," Julia said. "You're kidding."
I circled the loop of the driveway and turned out the other side. "Yeah, l am."
That way, when I pulled into the house two driveways down, the sprawling Georgian with its rows of beech trees and its slope to the Bay, it wasn't quite as imposing. At the very least, it was smaller than the first place.
Julia shook her head. "Your parents are going to take one look at me and pull us apart with a crowbar,"
"They're gonna love you," I told her, the first time I lied to Julia, but not the last.
Julia ducks beneath the table with a plateful of pasta. "Here you go, Judge," she says. "So what's with the dog?"
"He translates for my Spanish-speaking clients."
"Really."
I grin at her. "Really."
She leans forward, narrowing her eyes. "You know, I have six brothers. I know how you guys work."
"Do tell."
"And give away my trade secrets? I don't think so." She shakes her head. "Maybe Anna hired you because you're just as evasive as she is."
"She hired me because she saw my name in the paper," I say. "Nothing more to it than that."
"But why'd you take her on? This isn't your usual case."
"How would you know what my usual case is?"
It is said lightly, a joke, but Julia goes mute, and there's my answer: all these years, she's been following my career.
Sort of like I've been following hers.
I clear my throat, uncomfortable, and point to her face. "You've got sauce… over there."
She lifts her napkin and wipes the side of her mouth, but misses completely. "Did I get it off?" she asks.
Leaning forward with my own napkin, I clean the small spot—but then I don't move away. My hand rests on her cheek. Our eyes lock, and in that instance, we are young again and learning the shape of each other.
"Campbell," Julia says, "don't do this to me."
"Do what?"
"Push me off the same cliff twice."
When the cell phone in my coat pocket rings, we both jump. Julia inadvertently knocks over her glass of Chianti while I answer. "No, calm down. Calm down. Where are you? Okay, I'm on my way." Julia stops mopping the table as I hang up. "I have to go."
"Is everything all right?"
"That was Anna," I say. "She's at the Upper Darby Police Station."
On the way back to Providence, I tried to come up with at least one awful death per mile for my parents. Bludgeoning, scalping. Skinning alive and sprinkling with salt. Pickling in gin, although I don't know whether that would be considered torture or simply Nirvana.
It was possible they saw me sneaking into the guest room, bringing Julia down the servants' stairs to the rear door of the house. It is possible they could make out our silhouettes as we stripped off our clothes and waded into the Bay. Maybe they watched her legs wrap around me, watched me lay her down on a bed made of sweatshirts and flannel.
Their excuse, given the next morning over eggs Benedict, was an invitation to a party at the Club that night—black-tie, family only. An invitation that, of course, didn't include Julia.
It was so hot out by the time we pulled up to her house that some enterprising boy had pried open the fire hydrant, and kids bounced like popcorn through the stream. "Julia, I never should have dragged you home to meet my parents."
"There's a lot of stuff you shouldn't do," she admitted. "And most of it involves me."
"I'll call you before graduation," I said, as she kissed me and got out of the jeep.
But I didn't call. And I didn't meet up with her at graduation. And she thinks she knows why, but she doesn't.
The curious thing about Rhode Island is that it has absolutely no feng shui. By this I mean that there's a Little Compton, but no Big Compton. There's an Upper Darby but no Lower Darby. There are all sorts of places denned in terms of something else that doesn't actually exist.
Julia follows me in her own car. Judge and I must break a land-speed record, because it seems less than five minutes have passed since the phone call and the moment we walk into the station to find Anna hysterical beside the desk sergeant. She flies toward me, frantic. "You've got to help," she cries. "Jesse got arrested."
"What?" I stare at Anna, who tore me away from a very good meal, not to mention a conversation I really would rather have followed to its conclusion. "Why is this my problem?"
"Because I need you to get him out," Anna explains slowly, as if I am a moron. "You're a lawyer."
"I'm not his lawyer."
"But can't you be?"
"Why don't you call your mother," I suggest. "I hear she's taking new clients."
Julia whacks me on the arm. "Shut up." She turns to Anna.
"What happened?"
"Jesse stole a car and he got nailed."
"Give me more details," I say, already regretting this. "It was a Humvee, I think. A big, yellow one." There's one big yellow Humvee in this entire state, and it belongs to Judge Newbell. A headache begins between my eyes. "Your brother stole a judge's car, and you want me to get him out?" Anna blinks at me. "Well, yeah,"
Jesus. "Let me go talk to the officer." Leaving Anna in Julia's care, I walk to the desk sergeant, who—I swear it—is already laughing at me. "I'm representing Jesse Fitzgerald," I sigh. "Sorry to hear that."
"It was Judge Newbell's, wasn't it?" The officer smiles. "Yup."
I take a deep breath. "The kid doesn't have a record.”
“That's because he just turned eighteen. He's got a juvy record a mile long."
"Look," I say. "His family's going through a lot right now. One sister's dying; the other one is suing her parents. Can you cut me a break here?"
The officer looks over at Anna. "I'll talk to the AG for you, but you'd better plead the kid, because I'm quite sure Judge Newbell doesn't want to come testify."
After a little more negotiation I walk back toward Anna, who leaps up the minute she sees me. "Did you fix it?"
"Yeah. But I'm never doing this again, and I'm not done with you." I stalk toward the rear of the station, where the holding cells are.
Jesse Fitzgerald lies on his back on the metal bunk, one arm thrown over his eyes. For a moment I stand outside his cell. "You know, you are the best argument I've ever seen for natural selection."
He sits up. "Who the hell are you?"
"Your fairy godmother. You dumb little shit—do you realize you stole a judge's Humvee?"
"Well, how was I supposed to know whose car it was?"
"Maybe because of the judicial vanity plate that says ALLRISE?"
I say. "I'm a lawyer. Your sister asked me to represent you. Against my better judgment, I've agreed."
"No kidding? So can you get me out?"
"They're going to let you go on PR bail. You need to give them your license and agree to live at home, which you already do, so that shouldn't be a problem."
Jesse considers this. "Do I have to give them my car?"
"No."
You can actually see the gears churning. A kid like Jesse couldn't care less about a piece of paper that permits him to drive, just so long as he has wheels. "That's cool, then," he says.
I motion to an officer waiting nearby, who unlocks the cell so that Jesse can leave. We walk side by side to the waiting area. He is as tall as I am, but unfinished around the edges. His face lights up as we turn the corner, and for a moment I think he is capable of redemption, that maybe he feels enough for Anna to be an ally for her.
But he ignores his sister, and instead approaches Julia. "Hey," he says. "Were you worried about me?"
I want, in that moment, to lock him back up. After I kill him.
"Get away," Julia sighs. "Come on, Anna. Let's go find something to eat."
Jesse looks up. "Excellent. I'm starving."
"Not you," I say. "We're going to court."
On the day I graduated from Wheeler, the locusts came. They arrived like a thick summer storm, tangling in the branches of trees and thudding hard on the ground. The meteorologists had a field day, trying to explain the phenomenon. They mentioned biblical plagues and El Nino and our prolonged drought. They recommended umbrellas, broad-brimmed hats, staying indoors. The graduation ceremony, however, was held outside under a large white canvas tent. As the salutatorian spoke, his message was punctuated by the suicide leap of bugs. Locusts rolled off the sloped roof, falling into the laps of spectators.
I hadn't wanted to come, but my parents forced me to go. Julia found me while I was putting on my cap. She wrapped her arms around my waist. She tried to kiss me. "Hey," she said. "Which side of the earth did you drop off?"
I remember thinking that in our white gowns, we looked like ghosts. I pushed her away from me. "Don't. Okay P Just don't."
In every graduation photo my parents took, I was smiling as if this new world were a place I actually wanted to live in, while all around me insects fell, big as fists.
What is ethical to a lawyer differs from what's ethical to the rest of the world. In fact, we have a written code—the Rules of Professional Responsibility—which we have to read, be tested on, and follow in order to maintain a practice. But these very standards require us to do things that most people consider immoral. For example, if you walk into my office and say, "I killed the Lindbergh baby," I might ask you where the body is. "Under my bedroom floor," you tell me, "three feet down below the foundation of the h
ouse." If I am to do my job correctly, I can't tell a soul where that baby is. I could be disbarred, in fact, if I do.
All this means is that I'm actually educated to think that morals and ethics do not necessarily go hand in hand.
"Bruce," I say to the prosecutor, "my client will waive information. And if you get rid of some of these traffic misdemeanors, I swear he'll never come within fifty feet of the judge or his car again."
I wonder how much the general population of this country knows that the legal system has far more to do with playing a good hand of poker than it does with justice.
Bruce is an all right guy. Plus, I happen to know he's just been assigned to a double murder; he doesn't want to waste his time with Jesse Fitzgerald's conviction.
"You know, we're talking about Judge Newbell's Humvee, Campbell," he says.
"Yes. I am aware of that," I answer gravely, when what I'm thinking is that anyone vain enough to drive a Humvee is practically asking to have it ripped off.
"Let me talk to the judge," Bruce sighs. "I'm probably going to get eviscerated for suggesting it, but I'll tell him that the cops don't mind if we give the kid a break."
Twenty minutes later, we have signed all the forms, and Jesse stands beside me in the front of the court. Twenty-five minutes later he is on probation, officially, and we walk out onto the courthouse steps.
It is one of those summer days that feel like a memory welling up in your throat. On days like this, I would have been sailing with my father.
Jesse tips his head back. "We used to fish for tadpoles," he says out of nowhere. "Catch them up in a bucket, and then watch their tails turn into legs. Not a single one, I swear it, ever made it to frog." He turns to me and pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket.
"Want one?"
I haven't smoked since I was in law school. But I find myself taking a cigarette and lighting up. Judge watches life happen, lolling his tongue. Beside me, Jesse strikes a match. "Thanks," he says. "For what you're doing for Anna."
My Sister's Keeper Page 19
