The Jodi Picoult Collection #4

by Jodi Picoult

  “I’m sorry,” Oliver says after a moment. “I should have seen that coming.”

  I push up on my elbows to look at him.

  “There are a lot of people who want to see what happens with your case,” he says, “and I should have prepared you.”

  “I don’t want to go back there,” I say.

  “Jake, the judge is going to put you back in jail if you don’t.”

  I run through the list of rules in my head, the ones Oliver gave me for court behavior. I wonder why he didn’t give the reporters the same rules, because clearly shoving a microphone up my nostrils doesn’t qualify as good etiquette. “I want a sensory break,” I announce, one of the appropriate responses to Oliver when we are at the trial.

  He sits up and draws his knees into his chest. A car pulls up to the gas pump a few feet away, and the guy who gets out looks at us strangely before swiping his credit card. “Then we’ll ask the judge for one as soon as we get inside.” He tilts his head. “What do you say, Jake? You ready to fight with me?”

  I roll my toes in the bells of the dress shoes. I do it three times, because that’s lucky. “I love the smell of napalm in the morning,” I answer.

  Oliver looks away from me. “I’m nervous,” he admits.

  This doesn’t seem like a great thing to hear from one’s attorney before going into a trial, but I like the fact that he’s not lying to me. “You tell the truth,” I say.

  It’s a compliment, but Oliver interprets it as a directive. He hesitates. “I’ll tell them why you’re not guilty.” Then he gets up, dusting off his pants. “So what do you say?”

  This phrase has always seemed to be a trick question. Most of the time it’s uttered by a person when you haven’t even said a damn thing, but of course, the minute you point out that you haven’t said anything, you have.

  “Do I have to go through all those people again?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” Oliver says, “but I’ve got an idea.”

  He leads me to the edge of the parking lot, where Theo and my mom are anxiously waiting. I want to tell Oliver something, but it fades in the face of this more immediate problem. “Close your eyes,” he instructs, so I do. Then I feel him grab my right arm, and my mother grabs my left. My eyes are still closed, but I start to hear the humming of the voices, and without even realizing it, I make the same sound in the back of my throat.

  “Now . . . sing!”

  “I shot the sheriff . . . but I didn’t shoot no deputy—” I break off. “I can still hear them.”

  So Theo starts singing. And Oliver, and my mother. All of us, a barbershop quartet but without the harmony, up the stairs of the courthouse.

  It works. Probably because they are so surprised by the musical number, the Red Sea of reporters parts and we walk right up the middle.

  I’m so amazed that it takes me a while to remember what was stuck like a fish bone in my throat before we walked up the steps of the courthouse.

  1. I said to Oliver the verbal equation we’ll call p: “You tell the truth.”

  2. He replied with q: “I’ll tell them why you’re not guilty.”

  3. In the logic equation of this conversation, I had made the assumption that p and q were equivalent.

  4. Now I realize that’s not necessarily true.

  Before Jess and I started to work together, I had to go to social skills class at my school. This was largely populated by kids who, unlike me, were not particularly interested in joining the social scene. Robbie was profoundly autistic and spent most of the sessions lining crayons from end to end across the room. Jordan and Nia were developmentally disabled and spent all their time in special ed instead of being mainstreamed. Serafima was probably the most similar to me, although she had Down syndrome. She wanted to be part of the action so badly she’d crawl into the lap of a stranger and hold his face between her hands, which was cute when she was six but not so much when she was sixteen.

  Lois, the teacher, had all sorts of interactive games that we had to participate in. We’d role-play and have to greet each other as if we hadn’t been sitting in the same room together for the past half hour. We’d have contests to see how long we could keep eye contact. Once, she used an egg timer to show us when we should stop talking about a topic so that someone else could have a turn in the conversation, but that stopped quickly when Robbie went ballistic the first time the buzzer went off.

  Every day we had to end with a circle time, where we each gave a compliment to the person next to us. Robbie always said the same thing, no matter whom he was placed beside: I like terrapins.

  (He did, too. He knew more about them than anyone I’ve ever met since and probably ever will, and if not for him I’d still be confusing them with box turtles.)

  Jordan and Nia always gave compliments based on appearance: I like that you brush your hair. I like that your skirt is red.

  One day Serafima told me that she liked hearing me talk about mitochondrial DNA. I turned to her and said that I didn’t like the fact that she was a liar, since she had just that very day used the hand signal we agreed on as a class—a peace sign raised in the air—to tell Lois that she was tired of the topic, even though I hadn’t gotten to the part about how all of us in this world are related.

  That was when Lois called my mother, and my mother found Jess.

  I worked on compliments with Jess, too, but it was different. For one thing, I really wanted to give them to her. I did like the way her hair looked like the stringy silk you pull out of a corn husk before it goes into the boiling water, and how she drew smiley faces on the white rubber rims of her sneakers. And when I went on and on about forensic science, she didn’t wave a peace sign in the air; instead, she’d ask more questions.

  It was almost like that was her way of getting to know me—through how my mind worked. It was like a maze; you had to follow all the twists and turns in order to figure out where I started from, and I was amazed that Jess was willing to put in the time. I guess I didn’t really think about the fact that my mother must have been paying her to do that, at least not until that idiot Mark Maguire said so at the pizza place. But still, it wasn’t like she was sitting there counting down the minutes she had to suffer with me. You would have realized that, if you’d seen her.

  My favorite session with Jess was the one where we practiced asking a girl to the dance. We were sitting at a Wendy’s because it was raining—we had gotten caught in a sudden downpour. While it passed Jess decided to get a snack, although there wasn’t much fast food that was gluten- and casein-free. I had ordered two baked potatoes and a side salad without dressing, while Jess had a cheeseburger. “You can’t even have French fries?”

  “Nope,” I said. “It’s all about the coating, and the oil they’re fried in. The only fast-food fries that are gluten-free are at Hooters.”

  Jess laughed. “Yeah, I won’t be taking you there.” She peered at my bare potato, my undressed salad. “You can’t even have a little butter?”

  “Not unless it’s soy.” I shrug. “You get used to it.”

  “So this,” she said, turning the cheeseburger over in her hand, “is the kiss of death for you?”

  I felt my face go bright red. I didn’t know what she was talking about, but hearing her say the word kiss was enough to make me feel like I’d just eaten a butterfly instead of a cucumber. “It’s not like an allergy.”

  “What would happen if you ate it?”

  “I don’t know. I’d get upset more easily, I guess. The diet just works, for some reason.”

  She looked at the bun and picked a seed off it. “Maybe I should go cold turkey, too.”

  “Nothing upsets you,” I told her.

  “Little do you know,” Jess said, and then she shook her head and went back to the topic of the day. “Go ahead. Ask.”

  “Um,” I said, looking into my potato, “so do you want to go to the dance with me?”

  “No,” Jess said flatly. “You’ve got to sell it, Jacob.”

&
nbsp; “I’m, uh, going to the dance and I thought since you might be there, too—”

  “Blah blah blah,” she interrupted.

  I forced myself to look Jess in the eye. “I think you’re the only person who gets me.” I swallowed hard. “When I’m with you, the world doesn’t feel like a problem I can’t figure out. Please come to the dance,” I said, “because you’re my music.”

  Jess’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, Jacob, yes!” she shouted, and then all of a sudden she was out of her seat and pulling me up and hugging me, and I could smell the rain in her ponytail and I didn’t mind at all that she was in my space and too close. I liked it. I liked it so much that you know what happened and I had to push her away before she noticed or (worse) felt it hard against her.

  An old couple that was sitting across from us was smiling. I have no idea what they thought we were up to, but chances are Autistic Kid with Social Skills Tutor was not high on the list. The elderly woman winked at Jess. “Looks like that’s one cheeseburger you won’t forget.”

  There’s a lot about Jess I won’t forget. Like the way her fingernails were painted with sparkly purple polish that day. And how she hated barbecue sauce. How when she laughed, it wasn’t a tiny, delicate thing but a sound that came from her belly.

  So much time is spent with people superficially. You remember all the fun you had but nothing specific.

  I’ll never forget anything about her.

  Oliver

  When Jacob and Emma and I reach the defense table, the courtroom is already full and Helen Sharp is reviewing her notes. “The fun room’s great,” she says, sliding a glance toward me. “Gotta get me one of those.”

  By fun room, she means the sensory break zone, which has been erected at the rear of the courtroom. There are heavy soundproof curtains that seal it off from the gallery. Inside there are rubber balls with knobs on them and a vibrating pillow and a Lava lamp and something that reminds me of the long fabric tongues in a car wash. Emma swears all of these function as soothing devices, but if you ask me, they might just as easily have come from a fetish porn movie set.

  “If you’re going to ask the wizard for something, Helen,” I suggest, “start with a heart.”

  The bailiff calls us to attention, and we stand for the arrival of Judge Cuttings. He takes one look at the four cameras in the back of the courtroom. “I’d like to remind the media they are here only by my decree—a decision that can be changed at any minute if they become intrusive in any way. And the same goes for the gallery—outbursts will not be tolerated during this trial. Counselors, please approach.”

  I walk toward the bench with Helen. “Given the previous experiences we’ve had during closed court sessions,” the judge says, “I thought it might be prudent to check in with you before we begin. Mr. Bond, how is your client this morning?”

  Well, he’s on trial for murder, I think. But other than that, he’s doing swell.

  I have a brief flash of myself sitting on Jacob’s chest so that I can button his shirt, of him sprinting down the divided highway. “Never better, Your Honor,” I say.

  “Are there any other problems we need to be made aware of?” the judge asks.

  I shake my head, heartened by the fact that the judge seems to truly care about Jacob’s welfare.

  “Good. Because a lot of people are watching this trial, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to be made to look like a fool,” he snaps.

  So much for human charity.

  “And you, Ms. Sharp? You’re prepared?”

  “One hundred percent, Your Honor,” Helen says.

  The judge nods. “Then let’s begin with the prosecution’s opening argument.”

  Emma offers me a brave smile as I sit down on Jacob’s other side. She turns around to locate Theo, who is tucked in the back of the gallery, and then faces forward as Helen begins to speak.

  “Four months ago, Jess Ogilvy was a bright, beautiful girl full of hopes and dreams. A graduate student at the University of Vermont, she was working toward a master’s in child psychology. She balanced her studies with part-time jobs—like her recent position as caretaker for a professor’s home at sixty-seven, Serendipity Way, Townsend . . . and student teaching, and tutoring special needs kids. One of her pupils was a young man with Asperger’s syndrome—the same young man, Jacob Hunt, who sits before you as a defendant today. Jess helped Jacob specifically with social skills—teaching him how to engage others in conversation, how to make friends, and how to interact in public—all tasks that were difficult for him. Jess and Jacob met twice a week, on Sundays and on Tuesdays. But on Tuesday, January twelfth, Jess Ogilvy did not tutor Jacob Hunt. Instead, that young man—the same one she had treated with kindness and compassion—murdered her in a brutal and vicious attack inside her own residence.”

  Behind the prosecutor’s table, a woman starts weeping quietly. The mother; I don’t have to turn around to see that. But Jacob does, and his face twists as he registers something familiar about her—maybe the same line of jaw her daughter had, or the color of the hair.

  “Two days before her death, Jess took Jacob out for pizza on Main Street in Townsend. You’ll hear evidence from Calista Spatakopoulous, the owner of the restaurant, that Jacob and Jess got into a heated argument that ended with Jess telling Jacob to ‘just get lost.’ You’ll hear from Mark Maguire, Jess’s boyfriend, that when he saw her later that night and on Monday, she was fine—but that she’d disappeared by Tuesday afternoon. You’ll hear from Detective Rich Matson of the Townsend Police Department, who will tell you how officers searched for any sign of Jess for five days to see if she’d been abducted, and finally tracked a GPS signal on her cell phone to find her bruised and battered body lying lifeless in a culvert several hundred yards from her home. You’ll hear the medical examiner testify that Jess Ogilvy had abrasions on her back, choke marks around her neck, a broken nose and bruises on her face, a broken tooth . . . and that her underwear was on backward.”

  I scan the faces of the jurors, each of whom is thinking, What kind of animal would do that to a girl? and then glancing furtively at Jacob.

  “And, ladies and gentlemen, you will get to see the quilt that Jess Ogilvy’s body was found wrapped in. A quilt that belonged to Jacob Hunt.”

  Beside me, Jacob’s started to shake. Emma puts her hand on his arm, but he knocks it off. With a finger, I push the Post-it pad I’ve set in front of him a little closer. I uncap the pen I’ve given him, willing him to take out his frustration in writing instead of having an outburst.

  “The evidence we present will clearly show that Jacob Hunt murdered Jess Ogilvy with premeditation. And at the end of this trial, when the judge instructs you to decide who’s responsible, we are confident that you will find that Jacob Hunt killed Jess Ogilvy—a vibrant young woman who considered herself his teacher, mentor, and friend—and then . . .” She walks to the prosecutor’s table and rips the top piece of paper off her legal pad.

  Suddenly, I realize what she’s about to do.

  Helen Sharp crumples the paper in one fist and lets it drop to the floor. “He threw her away like trash,” she says, but by that time, Jacob’s started to scream.

  Emma

  The minute the prosecutor reaches for the legal pad, I can finish the end of her sentence. I start to rise from my seat, but it’s too late; Jacob’s out of control, and the judge—who has no gavel—is pounding his fist. “Your Honor, can we have a brief recess?” Oliver yells, struggling to be heard over Jacob’s shrieks. “No . . . wire hangers . . . ever!” Jacob screams.

  “We’ll take ten minutes,” the judge says, and suddenly one bailiff is moving toward the jury to escort them out of the courtroom and another one is coming toward us to take us to the sensory break room. “Counsel, I want to see you at the bench.”

  The bailiff is taller than Jacob and is shaped like a bell, heavy in his hips. He wraps one beefy hand around Jacob’s arm. “Let’s go, buddy,” he says, and Jacob tries to jerk away from him, and
then starts thrashing. He clips the bailiff hard enough to cause him to grunt, and then suddenly Jacob goes boneless, all 185 pounds of him, and falls heavily to the floor.

  The bailiff reaches down for him, but I throw myself on top of Jacob instead. “Don’t touch him,” I say, well aware that the jury is straining to see what’s going on even as they’re being shooed away, certain that every one of those cameramen has his lens trained on me.

  Jacob’s crying into my shoulder, making small snuffling sounds as he tries to catch his breath. “Okay, baby,” I murmur into his ear. “You and I, we’re going to do this together.” I tug until he starts to sit up, and then I wrap my arms around him, struggling to bear the brunt of his weight as we get to our feet. The bailiff opens the gate of the bar for us and leads us down the gallery aisle to the sensory break room. As we pass, the entire courtroom falls dead silent until we are ensconced within the black curtains and all I can hear outside is the tidal swell of a murmur of sound: What was that? . . . Never seen anything like it . . . The judge won’t stand for stunts . . . A ploy to get sympathy, I’ll bet . . .

  Jacob buries himself beneath a weighted blanket. “Mom,” he says from beneath it. “She crumpled paper.”

  “I know.”

  “We have to fix the paper.”

  “It’s not our paper. It’s the prosecutor’s paper. You have to let it go.”

  “She crumpled the paper,” Jacob repeats. “We have to fix it.”

  I think of the woman on the jury who looked at me with abject pity on her face the moment before she was hustled out of the courtroom. That’s a good thing, Oliver would say, but he is not me. I have never wanted to be pitied for having a child like Jacob. I’ve pitied other mothers, who could slip by on loving their children maybe only 80 percent of the time, or less, instead of giving it their all every minute of every day.

  But I have a son who is on trial for murder. A son who behaved the same way the afternoon of Jess Ogilvy’s death as he did minutes ago when a piece of paper was torn apart.