The Jodi Picoult Collection #4

by Jodi Picoult

  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.”

  “What do you think your chances are of being found not guilty?”

  “One hundred percent,” I say, “since I didn’t do it.”

  “Do you know how strong the case is against you?”

  “Obviously not, since I haven’t seen the discovery—”

  “You know what discovery is?” Dr. Cohn asks, surprised.

  I roll my eyes. “Pursuant to Rule Sixteen of the Vermont Rules of Discovery, Rules of Procedure for the Superior Court, the Prosecution is required to turn over all the evidence they have in the case, including the photographs, documents, statements, physical examinations, and any other material that they intend to use at the trial, and if they don’t turn it over, then I’m allowed to go free.”

  “Do you understand the difference between the defense, the prosecution, the judge, the jury, the witnesses . . . ?”

  I nod. “The defense is my team—my lawyer and the witnesses and me, because we’re defending me against the crime the prosecution’s charged me with. The judge is the man or woman who has authority over everyone in the courtroom. He runs the trial and listens to the evidence and makes decisions about the law, and the judge I met a few days ago wasn’t very nice and sent me to jail.” I take a breath. “The jury is a group of twelve that listens to the facts and hears the evidence and the arguments of the lawyers and then goes into a room where no one can hear them or see them and they decide the outcome of the case.” As an afterthought I add, “The jury is supposed to be twelve peers, but technically that would mean every single person on the jury should have Asperger’s syndrome, because then they’d really understand me.”

  Dr. Cohn makes another note. “Do you have confidence in your lawyer, Jacob?”

  “No,” I say. “The first time I met him I wound up in jail for three days.”

  “Do you agree with how he’s handling the case?”

  “Obviously not. He needs to tell them the truth so that the charges will be dismissed.”

  “That’s not how it works,” Dr. Cohn says.

  “It worked that way in My Cousin Vinny,” I tell him. “When Joe Pesci tells the court that the car isn’t the same as the one the witness identified because it had different tires. And it worked that way on CrimeBusters, episode eighty-eight. Do you want me to tell you about it?”

  “No, that’s okay,” Dr. Cohn says. “Jacob, what would you do if a witness told a lie on the stand?”

  I feel my fingers start to flutter, so I clamp my other hand down on top of them. “How would I know?” I say. “Only the liar knows that he’s lying.”

  Oliver

  On paper, Jacob Hunt not only looks competent to stand trial but looks like a damn prelaw student, one who is probably more qualified to defend himself than I am.

  Only the liar knows that he’s lying.

  It’s the third time I’ve read Jacob’s answers to Dr. Cohn, the state shrink, and the third time that statement has jumped out at me. Is Jacob Hunt brilliant, with a photographic memory that I could have used back in law school? Or is he just snowing his mother . . . and everyone else?

  Either way, during my last pass through the report, I realized that I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of challenging his competency—especially in a place like Vermont. No, if anyone’s feeling incompetent right now, it’s me—because I have to tell Emma that I’m not even going to fight the State on this one.

  I drive to the Hunts’—since Emma and Jacob are basically under house arrest, I can’t very well ask them to meet me at my office. Thor’s riding in my lap, half tucked beneath the steering wheel.

  I pull into the driveway and cut the ignition but don’t make a move to get out of the car. “If she goes haywire,” I tell the dog, “I’m counting on you to defend me.”

  Because it’s cold today—just above zero degrees—I carry Thor inside my coat and head to the front door. Emma answers before I can even knock. “Hi,” she says. “It’s good to see you.” She even smiles a little, which makes her soft around all the edges. “Frankly, when you’re stuck in the house, even a visit from the electric company meter reader is a highlight of the day.”

  “And here I thought you were starting to like me.” Thor pops his head between the buttons of my coat. “Would it be okay to bring him in? It’s really cold in the car.”

  She eyes the dog warily. “Is it going to pee on my carpet?”

  “Only if you keep looking at him like that.”

  I set Thor on the floor of the mudroom and watch him trot away. “I don’t like dog hair,” Emma murmurs.

  “Then aren’t you lucky you weren’t born a spaniel?” I take off my coat and fold it over my arm. “I got the competency results back.”

  “And?” In one heartbeat, Emma is focused, intense.

  “Jacob’s competent to stand trial.”

  She shakes her head, as if she hasn’t quite heard me right. “You saw what happened during the arraignment!”

  “Yes, but that’s not the legal definition of competency, and according to the state psychiatrist—”

  “I don’t care about the state psychiatrist. Of course they’re going to find someone who says what the DA wants. Aren’t you at least going to fight back?”

  “You don’t understand,” I tell her. “In Vermont you could be Charlie Manson and you’d still be found competent to stand trial.” I sit down on one of the benches in the mudroom. “You ever hear of a guy named John Bean?”

  “No.”

  “In 1993, he tied his mother up and built a funeral pyre for her with furniture he’d chopped into pieces. He threw bleach in her eyes, but his mother was able to escape. At his first appearance before a court, Bean told the judge he was the reincarnation of Jesus Christ. The judge said that his statements were bizarre and indicated an inability to comprehend what was happening. When he was charged with kidnapping for the same event, he refused counsel. He wanted to plead guilty, but the court wouldn’t accept that, so he was given a public defender. Bean told an evaluator that he believed he was the father of the public defender’s children and that she was the author of a comic strip and was a cross between Janet Reno and Janet Jackson. Through the next eight
years of representation, he never discussed his case with his attorney—who raised the competency issue with the court—”

  “I don’t see what this has—”

  “I’m not done,” I say. “The defense shrink said Bean reported having computer chips inside him that were letting him be programmed. The state psychiatrist found him psychotic. During the trial, Bean tore the radiator out of the wall, threw the court television, and got hold of one of the officers’ guns. He told his attorney that he was seeing serpents coming out of people’s heads in the courtroom, and that angels were controlling the witness. He was convicted, and before sentencing, he told the court that in Riverside Park they put a memorial stone in the name of the Freddie Mercury Foundation, after Freddie Mercury had killed a Catholic priest. After that, he said Tony Curtis said he would be Bean’s father, and he used the greater power of Simon the Pig—the same power that had created the Nazi government—to bring him into his house and feed him human flesh. Oh, and a cat talked to him subliminally.”

  Emma stares at me. “None of this has anything to do with Jacob.”

  “It does,” I say, “because in the State of Vermont, in spite of everything I just told you, John Bean was found competent to stand trial. That’s legal precedent.”

  Emma sinks down onto the bench beside me. “Oh,” she says, her voice small. “So what do we do now?”

  “I, uh, think we need to plead insanity.”

  Her head snaps up. “What? What are you talking about? Jacob’s not insane—”

  “You just told me he wasn’t competent to stand trial, and now you’re telling me he’s too competent to use an insanity defense. You can’t have it both ways!” I argue. “We can look at the discovery when it comes in . . . But from what you’ve told me, there’s a pretty strong case against Jacob, including a confession. I really believe it’s the best way to keep him out of jail.”

  Emma paces the mudroom. A shaft of sunlight falls across her hair and her cheek, and suddenly I remember an art history course I took in college: in Michelangelo’s Pietà, Raphael’s Madonna and Child, da Vinci’s Madonna of the Rocks, Mary was never seen smiling. Was it because she knew what was coming down the pike?

  “If the insanity defense works,” Emma asks, “does he get to come home?”

  “It depends. The judge has the right to put him in a secure treatment facility until he’s sure Jacob won’t hurt anyone again.”

  “What do you mean, ‘secure treatment facility’? You’re talking about a mental hospital?”

  “Pretty much,” I admit.

  “So my son can either go to jail or be put in a mental hospital? What about the third option?”

  “What third option?”

  “He’s free to go,” Emma says. “He’s acquitted.”

  I open my mouth to tell her that’s a huge gamble, to say that she’d have a better chance of teaching Thor to knit, but instead, I take a deep breath. “Why don’t we go ask Jacob?”

  “No way,” Emma replies.

  “Unfortunately, that’s not your choice.” I stand up and walk into the kitchen. Jacob is picking through a bowl of blueberries and giving the smaller ones to Thor.

  “Did you know he likes fruit?” Jacob asks.

  “He’ll eat anything that’s not nailed down,” I say. “We have to talk about your case, dude.”

  “Dude?” Emma’s come into the room and is standing behind me, arms folded.

  I ignore her and approach Jacob. “You passed the competency test.”

  “I did?” he says, beaming. “Did I do really well?”

  Emma steps forward. “You did great, baby.”

  “We need to start thinking about your defense,” I say.

  Jacob puts down the bowl of blueberries. “I have some cool ideas. There was this time on CrimeBusters when—”

  “This isn’t a TV show, Jacob,” I say. “This is really important. This is your life.”

  He sits down at the kitchen table and lifts Thor onto his lap. “Did you know that the guy who invented Velcro got the idea from taking his dog for a walk in the Alps? When the burrs caught on its fur, he thought about how something with hooks could catch onto anything with a loop.”

  I sit down across from him. “Do you know what an affirmative defense is?”

  He nods and spits back the legal definition: “It’s a reason for finding the defendant not guilty, such as self-defense, defense of another person, or not guilty by reason of insanity. The defendant has to raise it a certain amount of time before a trial, usually in writing.”

  “What I’ve been thinking, Jacob, is that your best odds at this trial involve an affirmative defense.”

  His face lights up. “Right! Of course! Defense of another person—”

  “Who were you defending?” I interrupt.

  Jacob looks down at Thor and plays with the tags on his collar. “Surely you can’t be serious,” he says. “I am serious . . . and don’t call me Shirley.”

  “Do you really think you’re in a position to be making jokes right now?”

  “It’s from Airplane!” Jacob says.

  “Well, it’s not funny. The State has a really good case against you, Jacob, which is why I think we need to use an insanity defense.”

  Jacob’s head snaps up. “I’m not crazy!”

  “That’s not what it means.”

  “I know what it means,” he says. “It means that a person isn’t responsible for criminal conduct if, as a result of mental disease or defect, he lacked the capacity to understand right from wrong at the moment the act was committed.” He stands up, knocking Thor to the floor. “I don’t have a mental disease or defect. I have a quirk. Right, Mom?”

  I glance at Emma. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  She hikes her chin up a notch. “We’ve always said that Asperger’s isn’t a disability . . . just a different ability.”

  “Great,” I say. “Well, Jacob, either I run the insanity defense or you can take that quirk of yours right back to prison.”

  “No, actually, in the State of Vermont, you can’t run an insanity defense if I tell you that you can’t,” Jacob answers. “It’s all in the Vermont Supreme Court case of State versus Bean, one-seventy-one Vermont Reports two-ninety, seven-sixty-two Atlantic Reporter second twelve fifty-nine, two thousand.”

  “Jesus Christ, you know that case?”

  “Don’t you?” He raises his brows. “Why can’t you just tell them the truth?”

  “Fine, Jacob. What’s the truth?”

  No sooner have I asked than I realize my mistake. Any lawyer knows to be careful what you ask when representing a criminal defendant, since anything he says might incriminate himself. If he gets on the stand later and denies what he told you earlier, you’re left in a quandary and have to either withdraw from representation (which would prejudice him) or tell the court that he’s not being truthful (which would prejudice him even more). Instead of asking what happened, you dance around the truth and the facts. You ask the client how he’d answer certain questions.

  Or in other words, I just royally screwed up. Now that I’ve asked him for the truth, I can’t let him get up on the stand and incriminate himself.

  So I stop him from answering.

  “Wait, I don’t want to hear it,” I say.

  “What do you mean you don’t want to hear it! You’re supposed to be my lawyer!”

  “The reason we can’t tell the court the truth is that facts speak a lot louder in a courtroom.”

  “You can’t handle the truth,” Jacob yells. “I’m not guilty. And I’m definitely not insane!”

  I scoop up Thor and stalk into the mudroom, Emma following. “He’s right,” she says. “Why do you have to plead insanity? If Jacob’s not guilty, shouldn’t the judge get to hear that?”

  I spin around so quickly she falls back. “I want you to think about something. Say you’re on the jury for this case, and you’ve just listened to a long list of facts that tie Jacob to the mur
der of Jess Ogilvy. Then you get to watch Jacob on the stand explaining his version of the truth. Which story would you believe?”

  She swallows, silent, because this point (at least) she cannot argue: Emma knows very well what Jacob looks like and sounds like to other people, even when Jacob doesn’t know it himself. “Look,” I tell her, “Jacob has to accept that this insanity defense is the best chance we’ve got.”

  “How are you going to convince him?”

  “I’m not,” I say. “You are.”

  Rich

  The teachers at Townsend Regional High School all know Jacob Hunt, even if they haven’t had him in class. This is partly due to his current infamy, but I get the sense that, even before he was arrested for murder, he was the kind of kid everyone could spot in the halls—because he stuck out like a sore thumb. After interviewing staff for several hours, and hearing how Jacob used to sit by himself during lunch and how he’d move from class to class wearing bulky headphones to block out the noise (and the rude comments of classmates), there is a part of me wondering how Jacob managed to wait eighteen years to commit murder.

  What I’ve learned is that Jacob twisted his schoolwork around his passion for CSI. In English class, when he had to read a biography and give an oral report, he chose Edmond Locard. In math, his independent research project involved Herb Macdonald’s angled impact of the point of origin of blood spatter.

  His guidance counselor, Frances Grenville, is a thin, pale woman whose features resemble a garment that’s been washed so often its original color has faded. “Jacob would do anything to fit in,” she says, as I sit in her office, thumbing through Hunt’s file. “Quite often, that would make him the butt of jokes. In a way, he was doomed if he tried to fit in, and doomed if he didn’t.” She shifts uncomfortably. “I used to worry he’d bring a gun into school one day, you know, to get even. Like that boy over in Sterling, New Hampshire, a few years back.”

  “Did Jacob ever do that? Get even, I mean.”

  “Oh, no. Honestly, he’s the sweetest child. Sometimes he’d come here during free periods and do his homework in the outer office. He fixed my computer when it crashed, once, and even recovered the file I’d been working on. Most of the teachers love him.”