The Jodi Picoult Collection #3

by Jodi Picoult

  As soon as the jury was dismissed, the courtroom erupted in a roar of questions. Reporters swam up the stream of onlookers toward the bar, hoping to corral Jordan for a quote. He grabbed his briefcase and hurried out the back door, the one through which the bailiffs were taking Peter.

  “Hold it,” he called out. He jogged closer to the men, who stood with Peter between them, his hands cuffed. “I have to talk to my client about Monday.”

  The bailiffs looked at each other, and then at Jordan. “Two minutes,” they said, but they didn’t step away. If Jordan wanted to talk to Peter, this was the only circumstance in which he was going to do it.

  Peter’s face was flushed, beaming. “Did I do a good job?”

  Jordan hesitated, fishing for a string of words. “Did you say what you wanted to say?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then you did a really good job,” Jordan said.

  He stood in the hallway and watched the bailiffs lead Peter away. Just before he turned the corner, Peter lifted his conjoined hands, a wave. Jordan nodded, his hands in his pockets.

  He slipped out of the jail through a rear door and walked past three media vans with satellite dishes perched on the top like enormous white birds. Through the back window of each van, Jordan could see the producers editing video for the evening news. His face was on every television monitor.

  He passed the last van and heard, through the open window, Peter’s voice. The game’s not over yet.

  Jordan hiked his briefcase over his shoulder and walked a little faster. “Oh, yes it is,” he said.

  * * *

  Selena had made her husband what he referred to as the Executioner’s Meal, the same thing she served him each night before a closing argument: roast goose, as in, Your goose is cooked. With Sam already in bed, she slipped a plate in front of Jordan and then sat down across from him. “I don’t even really know what to say,” she admitted.

  Jordan pushed the food away. “I’m not ready for this yet.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I can’t end the case with that.”

  “Baby,” Selena pointed out, “after today, you couldn’t save this case with an entire squad of firefighters.”

  “I can’t just give up. I told Peter he had a chance.” He turned his anguished face up to Selena’s. “I was the one who let him get up on the stand, even though I knew better. There’s got to be something I can do . . . something I can say so that Peter’s testimony isn’t the last one the jury’s left with.”

  Selena sighed and reached for the dinner plate. She took Jordan’s knife and fork and cut herself a piece, dipped it in cherry sauce. “This is some damn fine goose, Jordan,” she said. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “The witness list,” Jordan said, standing up and rummaging through a stack of papers on the other end of the dining room table. “There’s got to be someone we haven’t called who can help us.” He scanned the names. “Who’s Louise Herrman?”

  “Peter’s third-grade teacher,” Selena said, her mouth full.

  “Why the hell is she on the witness list?”

  “She called us,” Selena said. “She told us that if we needed her, she’d be willing to testify that he was a good boy in third grade.”

  “Well, that’s not going to work. I need someone recent.” He sighed. “There’s nobody else here . . .” Flipping to the second page, he saw a single, final name typed. “Except Josie Cormier,” Jordan said slowly.

  Selena put down her fork. “You’re calling Alex’s daughter?”

  “Since when do you call Judge Cormier Alex?”

  “The girl doesn’t remember anything.”

  “Well, I’m completely screwed. Maybe she remembers something now. Let’s bring her in and see if she’ll talk.”

  Selena sifted through the piles of papers that covered the serving table, the fireplace mantel, the top of Sam’s walker. “Here’s her statement,” she said, handing it to Jordan.

  The first page was the affidavit that Judge Cormier had brought him—the one that said Jordan wouldn’t put Josie on the stand because she didn’t know anything. The second was the most recent interview the girl had given to Patrick Ducharme. “They’ve been friends since kindergarten.”

  “Were friends.”

  “I don’t care. Diana’s already laid the groundwork here—Peter had a crush on Josie; he killed her boyfriend. If we can get her to say something nice about him—maybe even to show that she forgives him—it will carry weight with the jury.” He stood up. “I’m going back to the courthouse,” he said. “I need a subpoena.”

  * * *

  When the doorbell rang on Saturday morning, Josie was still in her pajamas. She’d slept like the dead, which wasn’t surprising, because she hadn’t managed to sleep well all week. Her dreams were full of highways that carried only wheelchairs; of combination locks with no numbers; of beauty queens without faces.

  She was the only person left sitting in the sequestered witness room, which meant that this was nearly over; that soon, she’d be able to breathe again.

  Josie opened the door to find the tall, stunning African-American woman who was married to Jordan McAfee smiling at her, holding out a piece of paper. “I need to give you this, Josie,” she said. “Is your mom home?”

  Josie took the folded blue note. Maybe it was like a cast party for the end of the trial. That would be kind of cool. She called for her mother over her shoulder. Alex appeared with Patrick trailing behind.

  “Oh,” Selena said, blinking.

  Unflappable, her mother folded her arms. “What’s going on?”

  “Judge, I’m sorry to bother you on a Saturday, but my husband was wondering if Josie might be free to speak to him today.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s subpoenaed Josie to testify on Monday.”

  The room started to spin. “Testify?” Josie repeated.

  Her mother stepped forward, and from the look on her face, she probably would have done serious damage if Patrick hadn’t wrapped an arm around her waist to hold her back. He plucked the blue paper out of Josie’s hand and scanned it.

  “I can’t go to court,” Josie murmured.

  Her mother shook her head. “You have a signed affidavit from Josie stating that she doesn’t remember anything—”

  “I know you’re upset. But the reality is, Jordan’s calling Josie on Monday, and we’d rather talk to her about her testimony beforehand than have her come in cold. It’s better for us, and it’s better for Josie.” She hesitated. “You can do it the hard way, Judge, or you can do it this way.”

  Josie’s mother clenched her jaw. “Two o’clock,” she gritted out, and she slammed the door in Selena’s face.

  “You promised,” Josie cried. “You promised me I didn’t have to get up there and testify. You said I wouldn’t have to do this!”

  Her mother grabbed her by the shoulders. “Honey, I know this is scary. I know you don’t want to be there. But nothing you say is going to help him. It’s going to be very short and painless.” She glanced at Patrick. “Why the hell is he doing this?”

  “Because his case is in the toilet,” Patrick said. “He wants Josie to save it.”

  That was all it took: Josie burst into tears.

  * * *

  Jordan opened the door of his office, carrying Sam like a football in his arms. It was two o’clock on the dot, and Josie Cormier and her mother had arrived. Judge Cormier looked about as inviting as a sheer cliff wall; by contrast, her daughter was shaking like a leaf. “Thanks for coming,” he said, pasting an enormous, friendly smile on his face. Above all else, he wanted Josie to feel at ease.

  Neither of the women said a word.

  “I’m sorry about this,” Jordan said, gesturing toward Sam. “My wife was supposed to be here by now to get the baby so that we could talk, but a logging truck overturned on Route 10.” He stretched his smile wider. “It should only be a minute.”

  He
gestured toward the couch and chairs in his office, offering a seat. There were cookies on the table, and a pitcher of water. “Please have something to eat, or drink.”

  “No,” the judge said.

  Jordan sat down, bouncing the baby on his knee. “Right.”

  He stared at the clock, amazed at how very long sixty seconds could be when you wanted them to pass quickly, and then suddenly the door flew open and Selena ran inside. “Sorry, sorry,” she said, flustered, reaching for the baby. As she did, the diaper bag fell off her shoulder, skittering across the floor to land in front of Josie.

  Josie stood up, staring at Selena’s fallen backpack. She backed away, stumbling over her mother’s legs and the side of the couch. “No,” she whimpered, and she curled into a ball in the corner, covering her head with her hands as she started to cry. The noise set Sam off shrieking, and Selena pressed him up against her shoulder as Jordan watched, speechless.

  Judge Cormier crouched beside her daughter. “Josie, what’s the matter. Josie? What’s going on?”

  The girl rocked back and forth, sobbing. She glanced up at her mother. “I remember,” she whispered. “More than I said I did.”

  The judge’s mouth dropped open, and Jordan used her shock to seize the moment. “What do you remember?” he asked, kneeling beside Josie.

  Judge Cormier pushed him out of the way and helped Josie to her feet. She sat her down on the couch and poured her a glass of water from the pitcher on the table. “It’s okay,” the judge murmured.

  Josie took a shuddering breath. “The backpack,” she said, jerking her chin toward the one on the floor. “It fell off Peter’s shoulder, like that one did. The zipper was open, and . . . and a gun fell out. Matt grabbed it.” Her face contorted. “He fired at Peter, but he missed. And Peter . . . and he . . .” She closed her eyes. “That’s when Peter shot him.”

  Jordan caught Selena’s eye. Peter’s defense hinged on PTSD—how one event might trigger another; how a person who was traumatized might be unable to recall anything about the event at all. How someone like Josie might watch a diaper bag fall and instead see what had happened in the locker room months earlier: Peter, with a gun pointing at him—a real and present threat, a bully about to kill him.

  Or, in other words, what Jordan had been saying all along.

  * * *

  “It’s a mess,” Jordan said to Selena after the Cormiers had gone home. “And that works for me.”

  Selena hadn’t left with the baby; Sam was now asleep in an empty filing cabinet drawer. She and Jordan sat at the table where, less than an hour ago, Josie had confessed that she’d recently started to remember bits and pieces of the shooting but hadn’t told anyone, out of fear of having to go to court and talk about it. That when the diaper bag had fallen, it had all come flooding back, full-force.

  “If I’d found this out before the trial started, I would have taken it to Diana and used it tactically,” Jordan said. “But since the jury’s already sitting, maybe I can do something even better.”

  “Nothing like an eleventh-hour Hail Mary pass,” Selena said.

  “Let’s assume we put Josie on the stand to say all this in court. All of a sudden, those ten deaths aren’t what they seemed to be. No one knew the real story behind this one, and that calls into question everything else the prosecution’s told the jury about the shootings. In other words, if the state didn’t know this, what else don’t they know?”

  “And,” Selena pointed out, “it highlights what King Wah said. Here was one of the kids who’d tormented Peter, holding a gun on him, just like he’d figured all along would happen.” She hesitated. “Granted, Peter was the one who brought in the gun . . .”

  “That’s irrelevant,” Jordan said. “I don’t have to have all the answers.” He kissed Selena square on the mouth. “I just need to make sure that the state doesn’t either.”

  * * *

  Alex sat on the bench, watching a ragged crew of college students playing Ultimate Frisbee as if they had no idea that the world had split at its seams. Beside her, Josie hugged her knees to her chest. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Alex asked.

  Josie lifted her face. “I couldn’t. You were the judge on the case.”

  Alex felt a stab beneath her breastbone. “But even after I recused myself, Josie . . . when we went to see Jordan, and you said you didn’t remember anything . . . That’s why I had you swear the affidavit.”

  “I thought that’s what you wanted me to do,” Josie said. “You told me if I signed it, I wouldn’t have to be a witness . . . and I didn’t want to go to court. I didn’t want to see Peter again.”

  One of the college players leaped and missed the Frisbee. It sailed toward Alex, landing in a scuffle of dust at her feet. “Sorry,” the boy called, waving.

  Alex picked it up and sent it soaring. The wind lifted the Frisbee and carried it higher, a stain against a perfectly blue sky.

  “Mommy,” Josie said, although she had not called Alex that for years. “What’s going to happen to me?”

  She didn’t know. Not as a judge, not as a lawyer, not as a mother. The only thing she could do was offer good counsel and hope it withstood what was yet to come. “From here on out,” Alex told Josie, “all you have to do is tell the truth.”

  * * *

  Patrick had been called into a domestic-violence hostage negotiation down in Cornish and did not reach Sterling until it was nearly midnight. Instead of heading to his own house, he went to Alex’s—it felt more like home, anyway. He’d tried to call her several times today to see what had happened with Jordan McAfee, but he couldn’t get cell phone service where he was.

  He found her sitting in the dark on the living room sofa, and sank down beside her. For a moment, he stared at the wall, just like Alex. “What are we doing?” he whispered.

  She faced him, and that’s when he realized she had been crying. He blamed himself—You should have tried harder to call, you should have come home earlier. “What’s wrong?”

  “I screwed up, Patrick,” Alex said. “I thought I was helping her. I thought I knew what I was doing. As it turned out, I didn’t know anything at all.”

  “Josie?” he asked, trying to fit together the pieces. “Where is she?”

  “Asleep. I gave her a sleeping pill.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “We saw Jordan McAfee today, and Josie told him . . . she told him that she remembered something about the shooting. In fact, she remembered everything.”

  Patrick whistled softly. “So she was lying?”

  “I don’t know. I think she was scared.” Alex glanced up at Patrick. “That’s not all. According to Josie, Matt shot at Peter first.”

  “What?”

  “The knapsack Peter was carrying fell down in front of Matt, and he got hold of one of the guns. He shot, but he missed.”

  Patrick rubbed a hand down his face. Diana Leven was not going to be happy.

  “What’s going to happen to Josie?” Alex said. “The best-case scenario is that she gets on the stand and the entire town hates her for testifying on Peter’s behalf. The worst-case scenario is that she commits perjury on the stand and gets charged with it.”

  Patrick’s mind was racing. “You can’t worry about this. It’s out of your hands. Besides, Josie will be fine. She’s a survivor.”

  He leaned down and kissed her, softly, his mouth rounding over words he couldn’t yet tell her, and promises he was afraid to make. He kissed her until he felt the tightness go out of her spine. “You ought to go take one of those sleeping pills,” he whispered.

  Alex tilted her head. “You’re not staying?”

  “Can’t. I’ve still got work to do.”

  “You came all the way over here to tell me you’re leaving?”

  Patrick looked at her, wishing he could explain what he had to do. “I’ll see you later, Alex,” he said.

  * * *

  Alex had confided in him, but as a judge, she would know t
hat Patrick could not keep her secret. On Monday morning, when Patrick saw the prosecutor, he’d have to tell Diana what he now knew about Matt Royston firing the first shot in the locker room. Legally, he was obligated to disclose this new wrinkle. However, technically, he had all day Sunday to do with that information whatever he liked.

  If Patrick could find evidence to back up Josie’s allegations, then it would soften the blow for her on the stand—and make him a hero in Alex’s eyes. But there was another part of him that wanted to search the locker room again for another reason. Patrick knew he had personally combed that small space for evidence, that no other bullet had been found. And if Matt had shot first at Peter, there should have been one.

  He hadn’t wanted to say this to Alex, but Josie had lied to them once. There was no reason she couldn’t be doing it again.

  At six in the morning, Sterling High School was a sleeping giant. Patrick unlocked the front door and moved through the corridors in the dark. They had been professionally cleaned, but that didn’t stop him from seeing, in the beam of his flashlight, the spots where bullets had broken windows and blood had stained the floor. He moved quickly, the heels of his boots echoing, as he pushed aside blue construction tarps and avoided stacks of lumber.

  Patrick opened the double doors of the gym and squeaked his way across the Morse-coded markings on the polyurethaned boards. He flicked a bank of switches and the gym flooded with light. The last time he’d been in here, there had been emergency blankets lying on the floor, corresponding to the numbers that had been inked on the foreheads of Noah James and Michael Beach and Justin Friedman and Dusty Spears and Austin Prokiov. There had been crimescene techs crawling on their hands and knees, taking photographs of chips in the cement block, digging bullets out of the backboard of the basketball hoop.

  He had spent hours at the police station, his first stop after leaving Alex’s house, scrutinizing the enlarged fingerprint that had been on Gun B. An inconclusive one; one that he’d assumed, lazily, to be Peter’s. But what if it was Matt’s? Was there any way to prove that Royston had held the gun, as Josie claimed? Patrick had studied the prints taken from Matt’s dead body and held them up every which way against the partial print, until the lines and ridges blurred even more than they should have.