by Jodi Picoult
He was a big man with no neck, a silver buzz cut, and glasses from the 1950s. In fact, Jack realized, it was entirely possible the superintendent had been sitting here, pushing papers, for half a century. “Mr. St. Bride,” the superintendent said, in a voice so feathery Jack had to strain to hear, “you’ve been charged with failing to follow the instructions of a correctional officer. Not an auspicious beginning.”
Jack looked at a spot over the man’s shoulder. There was a calendar hanging behind the desk, the kind you get free from the bank. It was turned to March 1998, as if time had stopped. “From your past history, Mr. St. Bride, I’m sure you’re aware that transgressions that occur in a correctional facility . . . even minor ones . . . can have a significant effect on the sentence you receive if convicted. For example—this little tantrum of yours could add three to seven years to the time you’ll have to serve.” The superintendent folded his arms. “Do you have anything to say in your own defense?”
“I’m not guilty of any crime. I don’t want to look like someone who is.”
The superintendent’s mouth flattened. “Son,” he said quietly, “you don’t want to do this, believe me. This freedom-fighter angle doesn’t play well here. If you just keep your nose to the wheel and follow the rules, your stay will be a lot more pleasant.”
Jack stared straight ahead.
The older man sighed. “Mr. St. Bride, I find that you’re guilty of violating the rules of this facility by refusing to wear the required clothing, and you’re sentenced to spend three days in solitary.” He nodded to the two correctional officers. “Take him away.”
The worst part about being a prosecutor, in Matt Houlihan’s opinion, was that even when you won, you didn’t. The world was too black and white for that. Even if he got Jack St. Bride locked up for twenty years, it didn’t take away the fact that this asshole, who’d been convicted before, had committed a crime again. It didn’t change the truth that Gillian Duncan would have to live with this memory for the rest of her life. It was like securing the bull after he’d careened through the china shop—yes, you could pen him for a little while, but you still incurred the cost of the mess he’d left in his wake.
Matt had chosen to meet Amos Duncan and his daughter at their home. Normally, he didn’t make house calls, but he was willing to bend the rules. Inviting the girl into his office would only bring to the forefront the legal battle that lay ahead of her. Right now, it was in everyone’s best interests to keep Gillian calm, so that when Matt finally needed to call in his chip, she would respond the way he needed her to in front of the jury.
He reached for a cup of coffee that Gillian handed him, and he took a sip as she sat down beside her father on the couch. “Excellent stuff. Kona?”
Amos nodded. “Hi-test.”
“The Jamaican blend is just as good. Of course, back at the office, we’re lucky to get watered-down Maxwell House.”
“I will personally buy the county attorney’s office an espresso machine,” Amos vowed, “if you lock up this bastard.”
Latching onto the segue, Matt nodded. “Mr. Duncan, I understand completely. And that’s why I’m here today. St. Bride has been charged with aggravated felonious sexual assault, which carries up to twenty years in the state penitentiary. I fully intend to ask for the maximum sentence. That means this case isn’t going to go away with a plea.”
“Is he going to get out?”
Matt did not pretend to misunderstand Amos. “St. Bride is being held without bail, so he’ll stay in jail until the trial. After his conviction, he’ll serve twenty years and then be on lifetime supervision. A third sexual assault offense will land him in prison for life.” He smiled mirthlessly. “So, no, Mr. Duncan. He’s not going to get out anytime soon.”
Matt turned to Gillian. “Our office can get you in touch with rape crisis counselors, if you need that kind of support.”
“We’ve taken care of that already,” Amos answered.
“All right. We’re currently in the process of interviewing witnesses. Gillian, are there people that you can think of who would know something about last night?”
Gillian looked at her father, who’d gotten up to pace. “The others, I guess. Whitney and Chelsea and Meg.”
Matt nodded. “Detective Saxton will be speaking to them.”
“What about the stuff from the hospital?” Amos asked. “Did you find anything?”
“We won’t know for a couple of weeks, Mr. Duncan.”
“Two weeks? That long?”
“As long as we have lab results before we go to trial, we’re in good shape. I’m confident that we’ll find physical evidence to support Gillian’s testimony.”
“My testimony?”
Matt nodded. “I’m going to have to put you on the stand.”
She immediately started to shake her head. “I don’t think I can do that.”
“You can. We’ll go over your testimony; there won’t be any surprises.”
Gillian’s hands twisted the bottom of her sweater. “But what about the other lawyer? You don’t know what he’s going to ask.” A bright thought swelled in her mind. “If something from the lab proves he was there, do I still have to testify?”
This was a very common reaction for a rape victim, and even more common for a teenager. Smoothly, Matt said, “Don’t worry about it now. I don’t have all the evidence yet. I don’t have all the police reports. I don’t have all the witness statements. Just let me do my job, let Detective Saxton do his . . . and then we’ll put together the best possible case we can.” Matt hesitated. “There is one thing I need to know,” he said. “Gillian, I have to ask you if you were a virgin before this happened.”
Gillian’s gaze flew to her father, who had stopped in his tracks. “Mr. Houlihan . . .”
“I’m sorry. But the answer’s important.”
Her eyes were fixed on her father as she murmured, “No.”
Amos stood and walked away, gathering his composure. “I want to help with the investigation,” he announced suddenly, changing the topic.
The statement seemed to take his daughter by as much surprise as it did Matt. “Thank you for the offer. But it’s best to let the professionals take care of the details, Mr. Duncan. The last thing you want is to have St. Bride freed on a technicality.”
“Do I get to see it?” Amos demanded.
“See what?”
“The reports. The police statements. The DNA evidence.”
“During the course of this trial,” Matt said, “I’ll make sure you know everything I know after I know it, as soon as possible. I’ll show you anything you want to see.”
That appeased Amos. He nodded stiffly.
But Matt was more concerned with Gillian, who still seemed tangled in the unexpected realization that she would have to get on the stand. “Gillian,” he said softly. “I’ll take care of you. Promise.”
The lines in her forehead smoothed, and she smiled tentatively. “Thanks.”
Amos sat down again and slid his arm around his daughter, as if to remind her that he was there to help her, too. Matt looked away, to give them a moment of privacy. And he made a fierce vow to himself to put his entire self on the line for the Duncans, if only so that they could have back a fraction of the life they’d had before Jack St. Bride entered it.
The last time Gilly had been in Dr. Horowitz’s office, she’d been nine years old. She remembered playing with dolls while Dr. Horowitz wrote in a notebook. And that the psychiatrist had always given her mint Milano cookies when the sessions were over. One day, her father decided that Gillian had put to rest her mother’s death, and she stopped going for her weekly sessions.
“Gillian,” Dr. Horowitz said. “It’s been a while.”
Dr. Horowitz was now two inches shorter than Gillian. Her hair had gone gray at the temples, and she wore bifocals on a beaded chain. She looked old, and this shocked Gilly—if all this time had passed for Dr. Horowitz, it meant that it had passed for her as well. �
��I don’t need to be here,” Gillian blurted out. “I can take care of this by myself.”
Dr. Horowitz only nodded. “Your father thinks differently.”
Gillian remained silent. She was terrified of talking. It was bad enough speaking to the county attorney and Detective Saxton, but they at least came expecting to learn. Dr. Horowitz—well, her job was to pick through Gillian’s head, to see exactly what was there.
“Why don’t we decide together if I can help you?” the psychiatrist suggested. “How are you feeling today?” Gillian shrugged, silent. “Have you been able to eat? Sleep?”
“I haven’t wanted to.”
“Have you been able to concentrate?”
“Concentrate!” Gillian burst out. “It’s the only thing that’s on my mind!”
“What is?”
“Him.”
“Do you keep remembering what happened?”
“God, yes, over and over,” Gillian said. “But it’s like I’m not there.”
“What do you mean?”
Her voice became tiny. “Like I’m sitting . . . way up high and seeing this girl in the woods . . . how he grabs her . . . and when he runs away, it’s like all of a sudden I’m gone too.”
“That must be very upsetting.”
She nodded, and to her horror, tears came to her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m okay, really. I just . . . I just . . .”
Dr. Horowitz handed her a tissue. “Gillian, it wasn’t your fault. You have no reason to be ashamed or embarrassed about what happened.”
She brought her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. “If that’s true,” Gilly said, “then of all the people in the world, why did he pick me?”
The solitary cell had a river of urine in its upper right corner and shiny, dried splotches on the cement block wall, the legacy of the last inmate to be confined. As the door was slammed shut, Jack sank down onto the metal bunk. The silver lining: He was wearing his clothes. His own clothes. He thought of all the Super Bowl winners who’d edged out the first goal, of countries that had won the first battle of an ultimately victorious war.
If the Carroll County Jail had custody of his body, then Jack would damn well keep custody of his own free will.
He felt along the metal links of the bunk and beneath the mattress, over the upper rim of the shower and in the drain, even around the base of the toilet. A pen, he prayed. Just a single pen. But whoever had neglected to disinfect the solitary cell had managed to strip it clean of anything that might be used for diversion.
Jack sat back down and inspected his fingernails. He scratched at a loose thread in his jeans. He unlaced his sneaker, and then retied it.
He closed his eyes, and immediately pictured Addie. He could still smell her on his skin, just the faintest perfume. Suddenly he felt his chest burn, his arm creep and tingle. A heart attack—Jesus, he was having a heart attack. “Guard!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. He shook the bunk, rattling it against the clamps that moored it to the wall. “Help me!”
But no one heard him—or if anyone did, no one came.
He forced himself to concentrate on something other than this pain. If you have pogonophobia, you’ll probably be avoiding these.
Focus, Jack. What are beards.
The unique food you’d give a butterwort plant.
Inhale. Exhale. What are insects.
An archtophilist would have a pile of these.
What are teddy bears.
He spread his hand over his chest as the pain ebbed, eased, stopped. And was not really surprised to find that he could no longer feel the beat of his heart.
Gillian watched the last of the candle flame sputter and sink into a pool of wax. A piece of paper with her mother’s name on it sat smoking down to ash in a silver dish. Gillian stared at the candle, at the makeshift altar. Maybe the reason she doesn’t come is because she hates the person I’ve grown up to be.
It wasn’t a new thought for Gillian, but today, it nearly brought her to her knees. She stood up slowly, drawn to the mirror. Picking up a pair of scissors, she stood in front of the glass and lifted a thick strand of her red hair. She chopped it off at the crown, so that a small tuft stood up, and the rest cascaded to the floor like a silk scarf.
She lifted another section, cutting it. And another. Until her skull was covered with uneven spikes, short as a boy’s. Until her bare feet were covered with hanks of her hair, a pit of auburn snakes. Until her head felt so light and free that Gilly thought it might lift from her neck like a helium balloon and soar as far away as possible.
Now, she thought, he wouldn’t look twice at me.
The conference rooms at the jail were narrow and ugly, with battered legal books stacked on a scarred table, windows that had been sealed shut, and a thermostat cranked up to eighty degrees. Jordan sat on one of the two chairs, strumming his fingers on the table, waiting for Jack St. Bride to be brought through the door.
St. Bride was clearly a loser—getting himself caught in a similar situation twice. But to learn that Jack had also managed to get thrown into solitary within an hour of his arrival . . . well, defending him was like being given a sow’s ear and told to make a silk purse.
The correctional officer who opened the door pushed Jack in. He stumbled once, glancing over his shoulder. “Nice to know the Geneva Convention doesn’t apply here,” he muttered.
“Why would it? This isn’t a war, Jack. Although, rumor has it you’ve been ready for combat from the moment you stepped in here.” Jordan came to his feet in one smooth motion. “Frankly, it doesn’t do me any good to find you in solitary after just one day. I had to offer my balls on a silver platter to the guards to get to meet with you in private in a conference room instead of through the slit in the steel door down there. You want to play the rebel here, fine—just be aware that everything you say and do here is going to wind up getting back to the prosecutor, and that you might feel the ripples all the way through your case.”
The speech had been intended to put the fear of God into Jack; to scare him into good behavior. But Jack only set his jaw. “I’m not a prisoner.”
Jordan had been a defense attorney long enough to ignore him. Denial was something his clients excelled at. Christ, he’d once stood up for a guy who was arrested in the act of plunging a knife into his girlfriend’s heart, and who maintained all the way to the State Pen that the cops had mistaken him for someone else. “Like I said yesterday, you’ve been charged with aggravated felonious sexual assault. Do you want to plead guilty?”
Jack’s jaw dropped. “Are you kidding?”
“You did the last time you were charged.”
“But that was . . . that was . . .” Jack couldn’t even get the words out. “I was wrongly accused. And my attorney said it was the safest course of action.”
Jordan nodded. “He was right.”
“Don’t you want to know if I committed this crime?”
“Not particularly. It isn’t important to my job as your defense attorney.”
“It’s crucial.” Jack leaned over the table, right in Jordan’s face. “The last thing I need is another lawyer who doesn’t even listen to me when I tell him the truth.”
“You listen to me, Jack. I didn’t put you in jail last year, and I didn’t get you arrested this time around, either. Whether you get acquitted or convicted, I get to leave that courtroom free and clear. My role here is simply to be your advocate, and to translate that into the simplest terms possible, it means I’m your best goddamned hope. While you’re sitting in solitary, I get to go out and fight on your behalf. And if you cooperate with me rather than jump down my throat every other fucking minute, I’m bound to fight considerably harder.”
Jack shook his head. “You listen. I didn’t rape her. I was nowhere even close to her that night. That’s the God’s honest truth. I’m innocent. That’s why I don’t want to wear their clothes and sit in their cell. I don’t belong here.”
Jordan returned his gaze evenly.
“You were willing enough to do it before when you accepted a plea, in spite of your . . . innocence.”
“And that’s why,” Jack said, his voice breaking, “there’s no way I’m going to do it again. I will kill myself before I sit in jail again for a crime I didn’t commit.”
Jordan looked at Jack’s rumpled clothing, his wild eyes. He’d had clients before who seemed to feel that an impassioned cry for justice was the only way to muster an attorney’s enthusiasm for a case; they never seemed to realize that a good lawyer could identify bullshit by its stink. “All right. You weren’t there that night.”
“No.”
“Where were you?”
Jack picked at his thumbnail. “Drinking,” he admitted.
“Of course,” Jordan muttered, amazed that this case could get any worse. “With whom?”
“Roy Peabody. I was at the Rooster’s Spit until they closed up.”
“How much did you drink?”
Jack glanced away. “More than I should have.”
“Fabulous,” Jordan sighed.
“Then I went out for a walk.”
“A midnight walk. Did anyone see you?”
Jack hesitated, for only an instant. “No.”
“Where did you go?”
“Just . . . around. Behind town.”
“But not near the woods behind the cemetery. Not anywhere near Gillian Duncan.”
“I told you, I never saw her that night, let alone touched her.”
“That’s funny, Jack. Because I’m looking at that scratch on your cheek, the one that Gillian Duncan said she gave you in her victim’s statement.”
“It was a branch,” Jack said through clenched teeth.
“Ah. From the forest you weren’t in?” Jordan’s gaze skimmed over Jack’s bruised face. “Did she beat you up, too?”
“No. It was a bunch of guys in ski masks.”
“Ski masks,” Jordan repeated, not buying a word of it. “Why were people in ski masks beating you up?”
