The Jodi Picoult Collection #4

by Jodi Picoult

  “That,” I said, “would be the best that could possibly happen.”

  That shut her up pretty quickly.

  Now, Jacob is visibly nervous. He’s rocking on the chair in the witness stand, and his head is bent at some strange angle. “Can you tell us your name?” I ask.

  Jacob nods.

  “Jacob, you have to speak out loud. The stenographer’s writing down your words, and she has to be able to hear you. Can you tell me your name?”

  “Yes,” he says. “I can.”

  I sigh. “What is your name?”

  “Jacob Hunt.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “Jacob, do you know what the Miranda warning says?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me?”

  “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense.”

  “Now, Jacob,” I ask, “do you know what that means?”

  “Objection,” Helen argues as Jacob starts to hit his fist against the side of the witness box.

  “I’ll withdraw the question,” I say. “Jacob, can you tell me what the Second Amendment to the Constitution says?”

  “A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms shall not be infringed,” Jacob recites.

  Atta boy, I think. “What does that mean, Jacob?”

  He hesitates. “You’ll shoot your eye out, kid!”

  The judge frowns. “Isn’t that from A Christmas Story?”

  “Yes,” Jacob replies.

  “Jacob, you don’t know what the Second Amendment really means, do you?”

  “Yes, I do: A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms shall not be infringed.”

  I look at the judge. “Your Honor, nothing further.”

  Helen is already on the prowl. I watch Jacob shrink back in his seat. “Did you know Detective Matson wanted to talk to you about what happened to Jess?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you willing to talk to him about that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me what it means to waive your rights?”

  I hold my breath as Jacob hesitates. And then slowly, beautifully, the right fist he’s been banging against the wooden railing unfurls and is raised over his head, moving back and forth like a metronome.

  Emma

  I was furious when Oliver pulled this stunt. Wasn’t he the one who’d said putting Jacob on the witness stand would only be detrimental to the trial? Even if it was a judge here, not a jury of twelve, Jacob was bound to suffer. Thrusting him into a situation certain to make him have a meltdown simply for the sake of being able to say to the judge, See, I told you so, seemed cruel and pointless, the equivalent of jumping off a building in order to command attention, which you’d be too dead to enjoy in the aftermath. But Jacob rose to the occasion—granted, with stims and tics. He didn’t freak out, not even when that Dragon Lady of a prosecutor started in on him. I have never been so proud of him.

  “I’ve listened to all the evidence,” Judge Cuttings says. “I’ve observed the defendant, and I do not believe that he voluntarily waived his Miranda rights. I also believe that Detective Matson was on notice that this defendant has a developmental disorder and yet did nothing to address that disability. I’m going to grant the motion to suppress the defendant’s statement at the police station.”

  Once the judge leaves, Oliver turns around and gives me a high five as Helen Sharp begins to pack up her briefcase. “I’m sure you’ll be in touch,” Helen says to Oliver.

  “So what does it mean?” I ask.

  “She’s going to have to make her case without Jacob’s confession. Which means that the prosecutor’s job just got a lot harder.”

  “So it’s good.”

  “It’s very good,” Oliver says. “Jacob, you were perfect up there.”

  “Can we go?” Jacob asks. “I’m starving.”

  “Sure.” Jacob stands up and starts walking down the aisle. “Thanks,” I say to Oliver, and I fall into place beside my son. I am halfway up the aisle when I turn around. Oliver is whistling to himself, pulling on his overcoat. “If you want to join us for lunch tomorrow . . . Fridays are blue,” I tell him.

  He looks up at me. “Blue? That’s a tough one. Once you get past the blueberries and yogurt and blue Jell-O, what’s left?”

  “Blue corn chips. Blue potatoes. Blue Popsicles. Bluefish.”

  “That’s not technically blue,” Oliver points out.

  “True,” I reply, “but it’s still allowed.”

  “Blue Gatorade’s always been my favorite,” he says.

  * * *

  On the way home, Jacob reads the newspaper out loud from his spot in the backseat. “They’re building a new bank downtown, but it’s going to eliminate forty parking spaces,” he tells me. “A guy was taken to Fletcher Allen after he crashed his motorcycle into a snow fence.” He flips the page. “What’s today?”

  “Thursday.”

  His voice races with excitement. “Tomorrow at three o’clock Dr. Henry Lee is going to be speaking at the University of New Hampshire, and the public is welcome!”

  “Why is that name familiar?”

  “Mom,” Jacob says, “he’s only the most famous forensic scientist ever. He’s worked on thousands of cases, like the suicide of Vince Foster and JonBenét Ramsey’s murder and the O. J. Simpson trial. There’s a phone number here for information.” He starts rummaging in my purse for my cell phone.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Calling for tickets.”

  I glance at him in the rearview mirror. “Jacob. We cannot go see Dr. Lee. You aren’t allowed to leave your house, much less the state.”

  “I left the house today.”

  “That’s different. You went to court.”

  “You don’t understand. This is Henry Lee. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I’m not asking to go out to a movie. There’s got to be something Oliver can do to get a furlough or something for the day.”

  “I don’t think so, babe.”

  “So you’re not even going to try? You’re just going to assume that the answer’s no?”

  “That’s right,” I tell him, “since the alternative to having you under house arrest is being thrown back in jail. And I am a hundred percent sure that the warden would not have given you a day pass to see Henry Lee speak, either.”

  “I bet he would, if you told him who Henry Lee was.”

  “This isn’t up for discussion, Jacob,” I say.

  “You left the house yesterday . . .”

  “That’s completely different.”

  “Why? The judge said you had to watch over me at all times.”

  “Me, or another adult—”

  “See, he already made exceptions for you—”

  “Because I wasn’t the one who—” Realizing what I am about to say, I snap my mouth shut.

  “Who what?” Jacob’s voice is tight. “Who killed someone?”

  I turn in to our driveway. “I didn’t say that, Jacob.”

  He stares out the window. “You didn’t have to.”

  Before I can stop him, he jumps out of the car while I’m still pulling to a stop. He runs past Theo, who stands at the front door with his arms crossed. A strange car is parked in the driveway, with a man behind the wheel.

  “I tried to get him to leave,” Theo says, “but he said he would wait for you.” With that information, he goes back into the house and leaves me face-to-face with a small, balding man with a goatee shaved in the shape of a W. “Ms. Hunt?” he says. “I’m Farley McDuff, the founder of Neurodiversity Nation. Maybe you’ve heard of us?”

>   “I’m afraid I haven’t . . .”

  “It’s a blog for people who believe that atypical neurological development is a matter of simple human difference and, as such, should be celebrated instead of cured.”

  “Look, this isn’t a very good time right now—”

  “There’s no time like the present, Ms. Hunt, for those in the autism community to stand up for the respect they deserve. Instead of having neurotypicals try to destroy diversity, we believe in a new world where neurological plurality is accepted.”

  “Neurotypical,” I repeat.

  “Another word for what’s colloquially called ‘normal,’ ” he says. “Like you.” He smiles at me, but he cannot hold my gaze for more than a heartbeat. He thrusts a pamphlet into my hand.

  MAJORITISM—An unrecognized condition.

  Majoritism is an incapacitating developmental condition which affects 99% of the population in areas of mental function, including self-awareness, attention, emotional capacity, and sensory development. The effects begin at birth and cannot be cured. Luckily, the number of those afflicted by majoritism is decreasing, as a better understanding of autism emerges.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say. I step around him, intent on getting inside my house.

  “Why is it so delusional to think that a person who feels someone else’s grief or pain isn’t hampered by that excess of emotion? Or that imitating others in order to fit in to the crowd is more acceptable than doing what interests you at any given moment? Why isn’t it considered rude to look a total stranger in the eye when you first meet him, or to invade his personal space by shaking hands? Couldn’t it be considered a flaw to veer off topic based on a comment someone else makes instead of sticking to your original subject? Or to be oblivious when something in your environment changes—like a piece of clothing that gets moved from a drawer to a closet?”

  That makes me think of Jacob. “I really have to go—”

  “Ms. Hunt, we think that we can help your son.”

  I hesitate. “Really?”

  “Do you know who Darius McCollum is?”

  “No.”

  “He’s a man from Queens, New York, who has a passion for anything transit-related. He wasn’t much older than Jacob the first time he took over the E train headed from the World Trade Center to Herald Square. He’s taken city buses out for a spin. He tripped the emergency brakes on an N train and impersonated a transit worker in uniform in order to fix it himself. He’s posed as a railroad safety consultant. He’s been convicted more than nineteen times. He also has Asperger’s.”

  A shiver goes down my spine that has nothing to do with the cold. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Do you know of John Odgren? At age sixteen he stabbed a student to death at a suburban high school in Sudbury, Massachusetts. He’d previously had knives and a fake handgun confiscated at school but didn’t have a history of violent behavior. He has Asperger’s, and a special interest in weapons. But as a result of the stabbing, the link between Asperger’s and violence was raised—when in fact medical experts say there’s no known link between Asperger’s and violence, and in fact kids diagnosed with the disorder are far more likely to be teased as victims than to be perpetrators themselves.” He takes a step forward. “We can help you. We can rally the autistic community to spread the word. Imagine all the mothers who’ll stand behind you, once they realize their own autistic children might be targeted by neurotypicals once again—not just to be ‘fixed’ this time around but possibly to be charged with murder over what might otherwise be a misunderstanding.”

  I want to say that Jacob is innocent, but—God help me—I can’t make the words come out of my mouth. I don’t want my son to be the poster child for anything. I just want my life to go back to the way it used to be. “Mr. McDuff, please get off my property, or I’ll call the police.”

  “How convenient that they’d already know the quickest route here,” he says, but he moves back toward his car. He hesitates at the door, a small, sad smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “It’s a neurotypical world, Ms. Hunt. We’re just taking up space in it.”

  * * *

  I find Jacob at his computer. “Tickets are thirty-five dollars each,” he says, without turning to face me.

  “Have you ever heard of a group called Neurodiversity Nation?”

  “No. Why?”

  I shake my head and sit down on his bed. “Never mind.”

  “According to MapQuest, it will take three hours and eighteen minutes to get there.”

  “To get where?” I ask.

  “UNH? Remember? Dr. Henry Lee?” He pivots in his chair.

  “You can’t go, Jacob. Period. I’m very sorry, but I’m sure Dr. Lee will be speaking again sometime in the future.”

  Will you be in prison then?

  The thought jumps into my head like a cricket onto a picnic blanket, and it is equally unwelcome. I walk toward his desk and stare down at him. “I need to ask you something,” I say quietly. “I need to ask you, because I haven’t, and I need to hear your voice saying the answer. Jess is dead, Jacob. Did you kill her?”

  His face collapses around a frown. “I did not.”

  The breath I have not realized I am holding rushes out of me. I throw my arms around Jacob, who stiffens in the sudden embrace. “Thank you,” I whisper. “Thank you for that.”

  Jacob doesn’t lie to me. He can’t. He tries, but it is so blatantly obvious that all I have to do is give a beat of silence before he caves in and admits the truth.

  “You do realize that keeping me locked up in this house for weeks or months could be considered criminal behavior. That good parents do not treat their children like caged animals.”

  “And you do realize that even if we had Oliver go before the judge to ask for an exception, Dr. Lee’s speech would be over before the judge scheduled the hearing?” I point out. “I’m sure it will be recorded. We can listen to the podcast.”

  “That’s not the same!” Jacob yells.

  The cords of his neck stand out in relief; he is dangerously close to losing control again. I moderate my voice so that it spreads like a balm. “Take a deep breath. Your Asperger’s is showing.”

  “I hate you,” Jacob says. “This has nothing to do with my Asperger’s. It’s about being made a slave in my own household.” He shoves me aside, heading for the hallway.

  I use every ounce of strength I can to hold him back. I know better, but sometimes, when Jacob is being particularly supercilious, I can’t help but argue back. “You walk out that door, and you’ll be in jail before morning. And this time, I swear, I won’t try to get you out,” I tell him. “I may be six inches shorter than you and fifty pounds lighter, but I am still your mother, and no means no.”

  He struggles against the restraint of my arms for a few seconds, and then all the fight goes out of him. Almost too easily, he sinks onto his bed and puts a pillow over his head.

  Without another word, I back out of Jacob’s bedroom and close the door behind me. I lean against the wall for a moment, sagging under the weight of the relief his admission has brought me. I had been telling myself that the reason I hadn’t directly asked Jacob earlier if he had murdered Jess was that I was afraid he’d be disappointed in me for even believing it was a possibility. But the real reason I’d waited so long was that I was afraid to hear his answer. How many times, after all, had I asked Jacob a question only to hope for a white lie?

  Do I have too many wrinkles?

  I just baked these—it’s a new recipe. What do you think?

  I know you’re angry, but you don’t really wish your brother had never been born, do you?

  Even today on the witness stand, the expert Oliver had found said Aspie kids don’t lie.

  Then again.

  Jacob told me Jess didn’t talk to him that Tuesday he was supposed to meet with her, but he didn’t tell me she was dead.

  Jacob told me that he’d been to Jess’s house, but he neglec
ted to mention that he’d found it in a state of disarray.

  And he never mentioned taking his rainbow quilt anywhere.

  Technically, he had told me the truth. And at the same time, he had lied by omission.

  “Mom?” Theo yells. “I think I set the toaster on fire . . .”

  I hurry downstairs. By the time I am extricating the charred bagel with two knives, I’ve convinced myself that everything Jacob hasn’t told me has been an oversight, a typical Aspie side effect of having so much information that some of it gets lost or forgotten.

  I have convinced myself that this could not have been deliberate.

  Jacob

  The term stir-crazy comes from the early 1900s. Stir was slang for prison, based on the Gypsy word stariben. Stir-crazy was actually a play on an older expression, stir-bugs, which described a prisoner who became mentally unstable due to being locked up too long.

  You can attribute my next actions to the fact that I was stir-crazy, or to the correct stimulus: the fact that Dr. Henry Lee, my idol, was going to be 188.61 miles away from me, and I was not going to be able to meet him. In spite of my mother’s assertions that if I went to college I would have to go somewhere local, where I could live at home and benefit from her help and organization, I had long assumed that, one day, I’d apply to the University of New Haven (never mind that as a high school senior I was already over a month past deadline). I would get into the criminalist program he’d founded there, where I would be plucked from undergraduate obscurity by Dr. Lee himself, who would notice my attention to detail and my inability to be distracted by girls or frat parties or loud music emanating from dorm windows and would invite me to help him solve a real current case and consider me his protégé.

  Now, of course, I had an even more pressing reason to meet him.

  Imagine, Dr. Lee, I would begin. You have set up a crime scene to point to someone else’s involvement and wind up a suspect yourself. And then together we would analyze what might have been conceived differently, to prevent it from happening the next time.