by Jodi Picoult
He had not broached the subject of the atropine with Meg. He could barely conduct a completely innocuous conversation with her, much less one charged with so much suspicion.
“Then again, maybe I’ve got your badge, Daddy,” Meg said, tears in her eyes. “Maybe I hid it at the bottom of my closet.”
Charlie took a step forward. “Meg, honey, listen to yourself.”
“Why? You don’t.”
The sorrow broke over her, and she stood in her towel before him, crying so hard it made Charlie’s chest ache. He grabbed for her, held her in his arms the way he had when she was small and had believed there were monsters hiding under her bed. There are no monsters, he’d told her back then, when what he really should have said was: There are no monsters there.
Suddenly, Meg went stiff in his arms. “Don’t touch me,” she said, drawing away. “Don’t touch me!” She pushed past him, running for the sanctuary of her bedroom.
As the door flew open in her wake, Charlie saw something glinting on the floor. His badge, which must have fallen behind the door when he was in the bathroom washing his hands. Charlie knelt and picked it up, fastened it, then looked in the mirror. There it was, shiny and silver, pinned to the requisite position on his chest—a shield that covered his heart but had not been able to protect it.
“Shit,” Jordan said. “They beat us here.”
Selena squinted into the sun at the steps of the courthouse, thick with cameras and television reporters. “Is there a back entrance?”
He cut the ignition. “I have to run the gauntlet, you know that.” They got out of the car, Selena straightening her stockings and Jordan shrugging into his jacket. “Ready?”
The reporters reminded Jordan of black flies, those horrible bugs that take over the Northeast for a few weeks every summer and fly heedless up your nose and into your ears and eyes as if they have every right to be there. Jordan pasted a smile on his face and began to hustle up the stone steps of the court, bowed in the middle from years of defendants trudging up in hope and down in victory or defeat. “Mr. McAfee,” a female reporter called, making a beeline to his side. “Do you think your client will be acquitted?”
“I most certainly do,” Jordan said smoothly.
“How will you account for the fact that he’s been in jail for sexual assault before?” another voice shouted.
“Come on inside,” Jordan answered, grinning. “And I’ll show you.”
The press loved him. The press had always loved him. He was cocky and photogenic and had long ago mastered the art of the sound bite. He shouldered aside cameras and microphones, wondering how far behind he’d left Selena.
One step away from the top, a woman blocked his progress. She wore a blood-red turban and a T-shirt that read TAKE BACK THE NIGHT. “Mr. McAfee,” she bellowed, “are you aware that in the United States alone, 132,000 women reported a stranger rape last year—and that if you include the estimated number of women who don’t report violence against them, there may be as many as 750,000 women who were raped?”
“Yes,” Jordan said, meeting her gaze. “But not by my client.”
Jack sat in the rear of the small cell in the sheriff’s office beneath the court, chewing on a thumbnail and staring at the floor between his shoes, completely oblivious to the fact that his attorney had arrived. “Jack,” Jordan said quietly.
He was struck by how well Jack cleaned up. But then again, this was what Jack had been born to: preppy blazers and rep ties and loafers. Jordan offered a confident smile. “You all set?”
“I suppose so.”
“I don’t have to tell you what it’s going to be like in there. You’ve done this drill before. A lot of shit’s going to be said before it’s over, and the most important thing you can do is keep your cool. The minute you blow up is the same minute the prosecutor proves that you’re just one big violent act waiting to happen.”
“I won’t blow up.”
“And remember, we get to go last,” Jordan said. “That’s the best thing about being a defense attorney.”
“And here I thought it was the truly fascinating people you got to fraternize with.”
A surprised laugh bubbled out of Jordan, but when he lifted his gaze, he found Jack staring at him, sober and intense. “Did you know that the average sentence for a felon convicted of a violent offense is one hundred five months?”
Jordan snorted. “Says who?”
“The Bureau of Justice Statistics. Over a million adults were convicted of felonies last year.”
“Maybe this year, the number will be 999,999.”
An uneasy silence settled over the men, punctuated by the cough of a prisoner two cells over. Jordan sighed. “I have to mention something one last time, Jack. You still haven’t given me much to work with here. But there are six men on that jury, and every single one of them has been in the situation where they’re fooling around and then the woman’s changed her mind at the last minute. As a defense against a rape allegation, it’s an easy sell.” He leaned closer. “Are you absolutely sure you don’t want to go with consent?”
Jack’s hands knotted together between his legs. “Jordan, do me a favor?”
The attorney nodded, and Jack turned, his eyes cold. “Don’t ever ask me that again.”
Matt reached into his briefcase for his notes and found them glued together with the dried remains of a mashed arrowroot biscuit. Shaking his head, he began to carefully peel apart the pages of his yellow legal pad.
“Ooh,” winced Jordan McAfee, passing the prosecutor’s table en route to his own. “The last time I saw something like that was in law school, when a guy tossed his cookies in the briefcase of the judge he was clerking for.”
“Friend of yours, no doubt,” Matt said.
“Actually, I think he went on to become a DA.” Jordan hid a smile as one of Matt’s papers ripped. “Careful. You don’t want to ruin your cheat sheet.”
“McAfee, I could try this case in my sleep and still win.”
“Guess that’s your plan, then, since you’re clearly dreaming.” He reached into his own briefcase and took out a pack of Kleenex, which he threw onto the prosecutor’s table. “Here,” Jordan said. “A peace offering.”
Matt took a tissue to wipe the cookie residue off his legal briefs, then tossed the pack back to Jordan. “Save the rest for consoling your client after the conviction.”
A side door opened as a deputy sheriff entered, escorting Jack to the seat beside Jordan’s. He still wore his blazer and tie, but he was handcuffed. As the deputy released the cuffs, Jordan focused on his client, who was such a bundle of nervous energy that heat seemed to emanate from his body. “Relax,” he mouthed silently.
That, Jordan realized, was nearly impossible. The gallery was full—media reps from states as far away as Connecticut were reporting on the trial, and there were a fair number of local townspeople who’d come to make sure that Salem Falls remained as morally pure as it had always been. Amos Duncan stared vehemently at Jack from his spot behind the prosecutor’s table. There had to be close to 200 people in that wide audience, all with their attention riveted on the defendant . . . and not a single one in support of Jack.
“Jordan,” Jack whispered, a thread of panic wrapped around his words. “I can feel it.”
“Feel what?”
“How much they hate me.”
Jordan remembered then that Jack had not ever suffered through an actual trial. His conviction had been a plea bargain—an uncomfortable hearing, but one not nearly as grueling as the one that was about to occur. The legal system sounded good on paper, but the truth was that as long as Jack sat beside a defense attorney, every person watching this trial would consider him guilty until proven innocent.
The six men and eight women who made up the jury and its alternates streamed solemnly in from a door on the side of the courtroom. Just before taking a seat, each one turned, scrutinizing Jack. Beneath the table, Jack’s hands clenched on his knees.
&nb
sp; “All rise!”
The Honorable Althea Justice billowed to a seat behind the bench. Her cool gray eyes surveyed the gallery: the cameras, the reporters with their cell phones, the tight rows of residents from Salem Falls. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, “I see we have a packed house today. So let’s all start out on the right foot. At the first sign of any inappropriate behavior”—she glanced at a cameraman—“or any outbursts”—she glanced at Amos Duncan—“you will be escorted from my courtroom, and will remain outside it for the duration of the trial. If I hear a beeper or cell phone go off during any testimony, I will personally collect everyone’s electronic devices and burn them in a pyre outside the court building. Finally, I’d like everyone to remember—including counsel—that this is a court of law, not a circus.” She slipped her half glasses down and peered over them. “Mr. Houlihan,” the judge said, “let’s get rolling.”
“On the evening of April thirtieth, 2000, Amos Duncan kissed his daughter good-bye and went out for a quick run. She was seventeen years old, and although he worried about her every time he left her alone, he had chosen to live in Salem Falls because it was a safe place to raise his child. Amos Duncan certainly didn’t expect that the next time he saw his daughter, she would be sobbing, hysterical. That her clothes would be ripped. That she’d have blood on her shirt, skin beneath her fingernails, semen on her thigh. That she’d be telling the police she had been raped in the woods outside Salem Falls, New Hampshire.”
Matt walked slowly toward the jury. “The evidence that the state will present to you today will show that on April thirtieth, 2000, Gillian Duncan left her home at 8:45 P.M. She met up with her friends and went to a clearing in the woods behind the Salem Falls Cemetery. They made a small bonfire and enjoyed each other’s company, teenagers having fun. And just as they were getting ready to leave shortly after midnight, this man came up to them.”
Matt jabbed his finger at Jack’s face. “This man, Jack St. Bride, approached the girls where they were sitting. He was unsteady on his feet. They could smell alcohol on his breath. He started speaking to them conversationally, even sat down with them to chat. When the girls made it clear they were on their way home, he stood up and left.
“Minutes later, Gillian and her friends departed on different trails. Worried about the safety of the smoldering ashes they’d left behind, Gillian decided to turn back and kick some dirt over the remains of their bonfire. At that moment, Jack St. Bride stepped into the clearing, pushed her to the ground, and brutally raped her.”
Matt faced the jury again. “Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Matt Houlihan, and I’m an assistant county attorney for the state of New Hampshire. I met you all during jury selection, but I wanted to introduce myself again, because it’s my job—as a representative of the state—to prove to you all the elements of this crime beyond a reasonable doubt. Jack St. Bride has been charged with committing aggravated felonious sexual assault against Gillian Duncan . . . but please, don’t take my word for it.”
He smiled, his very best Opie Taylor grin, one that invited the jury to believe that they were in excellent hands. “Instead, I urge you to listen to Gillian Duncan, when she tells you what she suffered at the hands of Jack St. Bride. And to her girlfriends, who were also there that night. Listen to the detective who found Gillian after the attack, and who investigated the crime scene. Listen to an expert witness, who did DNA analysis on evidence collected from the scene. Listen to the doctor who examined Gillian Duncan after the assault.” Matt looked at each member of the jury. “Listen carefully, ladies and gentlemen, because at the end of this case, I’m going to ask you to find Mr. St. Bride guilty . . . and on the basis of everything you’ve heard, you will.”
Jordan watched Matt return to his seat. The jury knew he was supposed to follow that opening act; most of the men and women in the box had their eyes turned expectantly on him. But he sat an extra moment longer, as if he, too, were considering Houlihan’s words at face value. “You know,” he said conversationally, “if the only evidence you were going to hear was what Mr. Houlihan just laid out in his opening, then I’d agree with him a hundred percent. From everything he just said—heck, it sure does look like Jack St. Bride committed this crime. However, there are two sides to every story. And you’re not just going to hear the state’s version of what happened that night . . . you’re going to hear Mr. St. Bride’s version as well.”
He ran one hand lightly along the railing of the jury box. “My name is Jordan McAfee, and I’m here to represent Jack St. Bride. And just like Mr. Houlihan, I want you to listen carefully . . . but I also want to remind you that things aren’t always what they seem to be.” Suddenly, Jordan leaned forward, as if to pluck something from behind a juror’s ear. The woman blushed as he stepped back, brandishing a shiny quarter.
“Objection,” Matt called out. “Is this an opening argument or a David Copperfield show?”
“Yes, Mr. McAfee,” the judge warned. “Did I not say something about turning this court into a circus?”
“I beg your pardon, Your Honor. I just wanted to prove a point.” Jordan grinned, holding up the coin. “I think we all know I didn’t just pull this out of juror number three’s head. But it sure looked that way, didn’t it? Like I said—things aren’t always what they seem to be. Not even when you experience them firsthand.” Jordan flipped the quarter into the air—and after spinning, it appeared to simply vanish. “It’s certainly something to keep in mind when you listen to the prosecution’s eyewitnesses.”
Matt sprang to his feet. “Objection!”
“On what grounds, Mr. Houlihan?” asked the judge.
“Your Honor, the credibility of all the witnesses is in the hands of the jury. It’s not for Mr. McAfee to determine whether testimony is credible or not . . . particularly during an opening statement.”
She arched a brow. “Mr. Houlihan, can we just get through this opening statement?”
“I’d like a ruling for the record, Judge,” Matt said stiffly.
“Overruled.” She turned back to Jordan. “Proceed.”
“Listen to everything,” Jordan advised the jury. “But don’t trust everything you hear. Picture what the witnesses tell you . . . but don’t assume that’s what actually happened. As Mr. Houlihan said, your job on this jury is crucial. Yet where the prosecutor would like you to act as a sponge, I want you to be a filter. I want you to ask yourself who was there. Ask yourself what they saw. And then ask yourself if you believe them.”
Rape victims, Matt thought, were the worst.
By the time larceny and assault cases made it to trial, victims put on the stand were angry about what had happened. In a murder case, of course, there was no victim left at all. No, it was only in a sexual assault case that someone who had been terrorized and was still, for the most part, traumatized, had to face her attacker from just a few feet away.
“That’s him,” she replied in response to Matt’s last question. She pointed with a trembling finger.
“Judge,” Matt said, “may the record reflect that the witness has identified the defendant.” He stepped smoothly in front of her, again blocking her view of St. Bride. “Gillian, what happened that night?”
Gillian bent her head, hiding her face. “I told my father I was going to my house, but I wasn’t, not really. We all lied, just to get out. Things had been so crazy . . . and our parents told us we couldn’t . . . well, it was like a dare for us.”
“Where did you go?”
“To the forest behind the cemetery. There’s a big dogwood there.” Gilly swallowed. “We built a campfire, and we were just sitting around it telling jokes and trying . . . trying to act brave.”
“Who was with you?”
“Meg was. And Whitney and Chelsea.”
“What time was this?” Matt asked.
“Around eleven o’clock.”
“What happened next?”
“After midnight, we decided . . . that it was time to go home. We were putt
ing out the fire when he showed up.”
“Who, Gillian?”
“Jack St. Bride,” she whispered.
“What was he wearing?”
“A yellow T-shirt. And jeans, and boots.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
“He smiled,” Gillian answered. “He said hello.”
“Did you say anything in return?”
“We were all really scared. I mean, we all knew what everyone had been saying about him raping that other girl—”
“Objection,” Jordan said. “Hearsay.”
“Sustained.” The judge glanced at the jury. “You’ll disregard that last statement.”
“You were scared,” Matt prompted.
“Yes . . . and all of a sudden he was right there with us, and looking a little wild. So, actually, none of us said anything. We were too terrified.”
“What happened next?”
Gillian seemed to draw into herself, remembering. “He looked at the fire,” she said, “and sat down. He asked us if we were roasting marshmallows. I remember thinking that . . . well, that it was an ordinary question. I expected someone who was supposed to be such a dangerous man to be . . . a little more dangerous.”
“Then what happened?”
“I told him we were just on our way home. He said that was too bad. Then he said good night and headed into the woods.”
“Do you remember which trail?” Matt asked, pointing to a map propped beside her.
Gillian touched a thin line arcing north, one that didn’t lead back to the cemetery. “This one.”
“Then what?”
“Well, as soon as he was gone we were all, like, Can you believe it? Can you believe it was him?” She hunched her shoulders. “Then we left.”
“What path did you take?”
Gillian pointed to a trail that led to the northeast, tracing it to the far edge of the woods. “I took this one,” she said softly. “It’s a shortcut for me. But the others were going toward the cemetery, because it was the quickest way back to their side of town.”
