by Jodi Picoult
“Do women who commit neonaticide feel badly about doing it?”
“Remorse, you mean.” Riordan pursed his lips. “Yes, they do. But only because they’re sorry their parents have seen them in such an unfavorable light—not because there’s a dead baby.”
“Dr. Riordan, how did you come to meet the defendant?”
“I was asked to evaluate her for this trial.”
“What did that entail?”
“Reading the discovery in this case, examining her responses to projective psychological tests like the Rorschach and objective tests like the MMPI, as well as meeting with the defendant personally.”
“Did you reach a conclusion as to a reasonable degree of psychiatric certainty?”
“Yes, at the time she killed the baby she knew right from wrong and was aware of her actions.” Riordan’s eyes skimmed over Katie. “This was a classic case of neonaticide. Everything about the defendant fit the profile of a woman who would murder her newborn—her upbringing, her actions, her lies.”
“How do you know she was lying?” George asked, playing devil’s advocate. “Maybe she really didn’t know that she was pregnant, or having a baby.”
“By her own statement, the defendant knew she was pregnant but made the voluntary decision to keep it secret. If you choose to act a certain way to protect yourself, it implies conscious knowledge of what you’re doing. Thus, denial and guilt are linked. Moreover, once you lie, you’re likely to lie again, which means that any of her statements about the pregnancy and birth are dubious at best. Her actions, however, tell a solid, consistent story,” Riordan said. “During our interview, the defendant admitted to waking up with labor pains and intentionally leaving her room because she didn’t want anyone to hear her. This suggests concealment. She chose the barn and went to an area that she knew had fresh hay placed in it. This suggests intent. She covered the bloody hay after the delivery, tried to keep the newborn from crying out—and the body of the newborn was found tucked beneath a stack of blankets. This suggests that she had something to hide. She got rid of the bloody nightgown she’d been wearing, got up and acted perfectly normal the next morning in front of her family, all to continue this hoax. Each of these things—acting in isolation, concealing the birth, cleaning up, pretending life is routine—indicates that the defendant knew very well what she was doing at the time she did it—and more importantly, knew what she was doing was wrong.”
“Did the defendant admit to murdering the newborn during your interview?”
“No, she says that she doesn’t remember this.”
“Then how can you be sure she did?”
Riordan shrugged. “Because amnesia is easily faked. And because, Mr. Callahan, I’ve been here before. There is a specific pattern to the events of neonaticide, and the defendant meets every criteria: She denied the pregnancy. She claims she didn’t realize she was in labor, when it first occurred. She gave birth alone. She said she didn’t kill the baby, in spite of the truth of the dead body. She gradually admitted to certain holes in her story as time went on. All of these things are landmarks in every neonaticide case I’ve ever studied, and lead me to believe that she too committed neonaticide, even if there are patches in the story she cannot apparently yet recall.” He leaned forward on the stand. “If I see something with feathers and a bill and webbed feet that quacks, I don’t have to watch it swim to know it’s a duck.”
* * *
The hardest part about changing defenses, for Ellie, had been losing Dr. Polacci as a witness. However, there was no way she could give the psychiatrist’s report to the prosecution, since it stated that Katie had killed her newborn, albeit without understanding the nature and quality of the act. This meant that any holes Ellie was going to poke in the prosecution’s argument of neonaticide had to be made now, and preferably large enough to drive a tank through. “How many women have you interviewed who’ve committed neonaticide?” Ellie asked, striding toward Dr. Riordan.
“Ten.”
“Ten!” Ellie’s eyes widened. “But you’re supposed to be an expert!”
“I am considered one. Everything’s relative.”
“So—you come across one a year?”
Riordan inclined his head. “That would be about right.”
“This profile of yours, and your claims about Katie—they’re made on the extensive experience you’ve collected by interviewing all of . . . ten people?”
“Yes.”
Ellie raised her brows. “In the Journal of Forensic Sciences, didn’t you say that women who commit neonaticide are not malicious, Dr. Riordan? That they don’t necessarily want to do harm?”
“That’s right. They’re usually not thinking about it in those terms. They see the action only as something that will egocentrically help themselves.”
“Yet in the cases you’ve been involved in, you’ve recommended that women who commit neonaticide be incarcerated?”
“Yes. We need to send a message to society, that murderers don’t go free.”
“I see. Isn’t it true, Doctor, that women who commit neonaticide admit to killing their newborns?”
“Not at first.”
“But eventually, when faced with evidence or pressed to explain, they crumble. Right?”
“That’s what I’ve seen, yes.”
“During your interview with Katie, did you ask her to hypothesize about what had happened to the baby?”
“Yes.”
“What was her response?”
“She came up with several.”
“Didn’t she say, ‘Maybe it just died, and someone hid it’?”
“Among other things, yes.”
“You said that when pressed, women who commit neonaticide crumble. Doesn’t the fact that Katie offered up this hypothetical scenario, rather than breaking down and admitting to murder, mean that it might have been what actually happened?”
“It means she can lie well.”
“But did Katie ever admit that she killed her baby?”
“No. However, she didn’t admit to her pregnancy at first, either.”
Ellie ignored his comment. “What did Katie admit, exactly?”
“That she fell asleep, woke up, and the baby was gone. She didn’t remember anything else.”
“And from this you inferred that she committed homicide?”
“It was the most likely explanation, given the overall set of behaviors.”
It was exactly the answer Ellie wanted. “As an expert in the field, you must know what a dissociative state is.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Could you explain it for those of us who don’t?”
“A dissociative state occurs when someone fractures off a piece of her consciousness to survive a traumatic situation.”
“Like an abused wife who mentally zones out while her husband’s beating her?”
“That’s correct,” Riordan answered.
“Is it true that people who go into a dissociative state experience memory lapses, yet manage to appear basically normal?”
“Yes.”
“A dissociative state is not a voluntary, conscious behavior?”
“Correct.”
“Isn’t it true that extreme psychological stress can trigger a dissociative state?”
“Yes.”
“Might witnessing the death of a loved one cause extreme psychological stress?”
“Perhaps.”
“Let’s step back. For a moment, let’s assume Katie wanted her baby, desperately. She gave birth and, tragically, watched it die in spite of her best efforts to keep it breathing. Might the shock of the death cause a dissociative state?”
“It’s possible,” Riordan agreed.
“If she then could not recall how the baby died, might her memory lapse be due to this dissociation?”
Riordan grinned indulgently. “It might, if it were a reasonable scenario, Ms. Hathaway, which it unfortunately is not. If you want to claim that the defendant went into a
dissociative state that morning that subsequently led to her memory lapses, I’m happy to play along with you. But there’s no way to prove that the stress of the baby’s natural death put her into that state. It’s equally possible that she dissociated due to the stress of labor. Or as a result of the highly stressful act of committing murder.
“You see, the fact of dissociation doesn’t absolve Ms. Fisher from committing neonaticide. Humans are able to perform complex meteoric actions even when the ability to recall these actions is impaired. You can drive your car while in a dissociative state, for example, and travel for hundreds of miles without remembering a single landmark. Likewise, in a dissociative state, you can deliver a baby, even if you can’t recall the specifics. You can try to resuscitate a dying baby, and not recall the specifics. Or,” he said pointedly, “you can kill a baby, and not recall the specifics.”
“Dr. Riordan,” Ellie said, “we’re talking about a young Amish girl here, not some self-absorbed mall-rat teen. Put yourself into her shoes. Isn’t it possible that Katie Fisher wanted that baby, that it died in her arms, that she became so upset about it her own mind unconsciously blocked out what had happened?”
But Riordan had been on the stand too many times to fall so neatly into an attorney’s trap. “If she wanted that baby so badly, Ms. Hathaway,” he said, “why did she lie about it for seven months?”
* * *
George was standing up before Ellie even made it back to the defense table. “I’d like to redirect, Your Honor. Dr. Riordan, in your expert opinion, was the defendant in a dissociative state on the morning of July tenth?”
“No.”
“Is that important to this case?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Riordan shrugged. “Her behavior is clear enough—there’s no need to invoke this psychobabble. The defendant’s subversive actions before the birth suggest that once the baby arrived, she’d do anything within her power to get rid of it.”
“Including murder?”
The psychiatrist nodded. “Especially murder.”
* * *
“Recross,” Ellie said. “Dr. Riordan, as a forensic psychiatrist you must know that for a Murder One conviction, a person must be found guilty of killing with deliberation, willfulness, and premeditation.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“Women who commit neonaticide—do they kill willfully?”
“Absolutely.”
“Do they deliberate about the act?”
“Sometimes, in the way they’ll pick a quiet place, or bring a blanket or bag to dispose of the baby—as the defendant did.”
“Do they plan the murder of the infant in advance?”
Riordan frowned. “It’s a reflexive act, stimulated by the newborn’s arrival.”
“Reflexive act,” Ellie repeated. “By that you mean an automatic, instinctive, unthinking behavior?”
“Yes.”
“Then neonaticide isn’t really first-degree murder, is it?”
“Objection!”
“Withdrawn,” Ellie said. “Nothing further.”
George turned to the judge. “Your Honor,” he said, “the prosecution rests.”
* * *
Sarah had held dinner for them, a spread of comfort food that offered no appeal for Ellie. She picked at her plate and felt the walls closing in on her, wondering why she hadn’t taken Coop up on his suggestion to get a bite to eat at a restaurant in Lancaster.
“I brushed Nugget for you,” Sarah said, “but there’s still tack to be cleaned.”
“All right, Mam,” Katie answered. “I’ll go on out after supper. I’ll get the dishes, too; you must be tired after helping out with the milking.”
From the opposite end of the table, Aaron belched loudly, smiling a compliment at his wife. “Gut meal,” he said. He hooked his thumbs beneath his suspenders and turned to his father. “I’m thinking of heading to Lapp’s auction on Monday.”
“You need some new horseflesh?” Elam said.
Aaron shrugged. “Never hurts to see what’s there.”
“I heard tell that Marcus King was getting set to sell that colt bred off his bay last spring.”
“Ja? He’s a beauty.”
Sarah snorted. “What are you gonna do with another horse?”
Ellie looked from one family member to another, as if she were following a tennis match. “Excuse me,” she said softly, and one by one they turned to her. “Are you all aware that your daughter is involved in a murder trial?”
“Ellie, don’t—” Katie stretched out her hand, but Ellie shook her head.
“Are you all aware that in less than a week’s time, your daughter could be found guilty of murder and taken directly from the courthouse to the prison in Muncy? Sitting here talking about horse auctions—doesn’t anyone even care how the trial is going?”
“We care,” Aaron said stiffly.
“Hell of a way to show it,” Ellie muttered, balling up her napkin and tossing it onto the table before escaping upstairs to her room.
* * *
When Ellie opened her eyes again, it was fully dark, and Katie was sitting on the edge of the bed. She sat up immediately, pushing her hair back from her face and squinting at the little battery-powered clock on the nightstand. “What time is it?”
“Just after ten,” Katie whispered. “You fell asleep.”
“Yeah.” Ellie ran her tongue over her fuzzy teeth. “Looks like.” She blinked her way back to consciousness, then reached over to turn up the gas lamp. “Where did you go, anyway?”
“I did the dishes and cleaned the tack.” Katie busied herself around the room, pulling the shades for the night and sitting down to unwind her neat bun.
Ellie watched Katie run a brush through her long, honey hair, her eyes clear and wide. When Ellie had first arrived and seen that look on all the faces surrounding her, she’d mistaken it for blankness, for stupidity. It had taken months for her to realize that the gaze of the Amish was not vacant, but full—brimming with a quiet peace. Even now, after a difficult beginning to the trial that would have kept most people tossing and turning, Katie was at ease.
“I know they care,” Ellie heard herself murmur.
Katie turned her head. “About the trial, you mean.”
“Yeah. My family used to yell a lot. Argue and spontaneously combust and then somehow get back together after the dust settled. This quiet—it’s still a little strange.”
“Your family yelled at you a lot, didn’t they?”
“Sometimes,” Ellie admitted. “But at least all the noise let me know they were there.” She shook her head, clearing it of the memory. “Anyway, I apologize for blowing up at dinner.” She sighed. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Katie’s brush stopped in the middle of a long stroke. “You don’t?”
“Well, no. I mean, I’m a little anxious about the trial, but if I were you I’d rather have me nervous than complacent.” She looked up at Katie, only to realize the girl’s cheeks were burning.
“What are you hiding?” Ellie asked, her stomach sinking.
“Nothing! I’m not hiding a thing!”
Ellie closed her eyes. “I’m too tired for this right now. Could you just save your confession until the morning?”
“Okay,” Katie said, too quickly.
“The hell with the morning. Tell me now.”
“You’ve been falling asleep early, like you did tonight. And you exploded at the dinner table.” Katie’s eyes gleamed as she remembered something else. “And remember this morning, in the bathroom at the court?”
“You’re right. I can blame it all on this bug I’ve caught.”
Katie set down the hairbrush and smiled shyly. “You’re not sick, Ellie. You’re pregnant.”
FOURTEEN
Ellie
“Clearly, it’s wrong,” I said to Katie, holding out the stick from the pregnancy test kit.
Katie, squinting at the back of
the box, shook her head. “You waited five minutes. You watched the little line appear in the test window.”
I tossed the stick, with its little pink plus sign, onto the bed. “I was supposed to pee for thirty seconds straight, and I only counted fifteen. So there you go. Human error.”
We both looked at the box, which contained a second stick. At the pharmacy the deal had been two for the price of one. All it would take for proof was one more trip to the bathroom, five more interminable minutes of destiny. But both Katie and I knew what the results would be.
Things like this did not happen to forty-year-old women. Accidents were for teenagers caught up in the moment, rolling around the backseat of their parents’ cars. Accidents were for women who considered their bodies still new and surprising, rather than old, familiar friends. Accidents were for those who didn’t know better.
But this didn’t feel like an accident. It felt hard and hot, a nugget nestled beneath my palm, as if already I could feel the sonic waves of that tiny heart.
Katie looked into her lap. “Congratulations,” she whispered.
* * *
In the past five years, I had wanted a baby so much I ached. I would wake up sometimes beside Stephen and feel my arms throb, as if I had been holding a newborn weight the whole night. I would see an infant in a stroller and feel my whole body reach. I would mark my monthly period on the calendar with the sense that my life was passing me by. I wanted to grow something under my heart. I wanted to breathe, to eat, to blossom for someone else.
Stephen and I fought about children approximately twice a year, as if reproduction were a volcano that erupted every now and then on the island we’d created for ourselves. Once, I actually wore him down. “All right,” he’d said. “If it happens, it happens.” I threw away my birth control pills for six consecutive months, but we didn’t manage to make a baby. It took me nearly half a year after that to understand why not: You can’t create life in a place that’s dying by degrees.
After that, I’d stopped asking Stephen. Instead, when I was feeling maternal, I went to the library and did research. I learned how many times the cells of a zygote divided before they were classified as an embryo. I saw on microfiche the pictures of a fetus sucking its thumb, veins running like roads beneath the orange glow of its skin. I learned that a six-week-old fetus was the size of a strawberry. I read about alpha-fetal protein and amniocentesis and rH factors. I became a scholar in an ivory tower, an expert with no hands-on experience.
