Keeping Faith

by Picoult, Jodi

  Judge Rothbottam takes the tape from Metz’s hand. “I’ll look at it in chambers and make my decision. Let’s take a short recess.”

  The attorneys head back to their seats. On the witness stand, unsure of what is happening,

  Mariah remains frozen, until Joan realizes her predicament and quietly approaches to help her step down.

  “What’s on the tape, Mariah?” Joan asks as soon as we are sitting at the defense table.

  “I don’t know. Honestly.” Although it is cold in the courtroom by anyone’s standards, sweat trickles between my breasts and down my back.

  The judge enters from a side door, settles into his chair, and asks me to return to the witness stand. From the corner of my eye I see a bailiff wheeling in a TV/VCR combination. “Shit,” Joan mutters.

  “I’m going to allow the tape to be entered into evidence,” Rothbottam says. Metz goes through the legal process, then says, “Mrs.

  White, I’m going to play the following tape for you.”

  As he hits the play button, I bite my lip. The small screen fills with an image of me lunging toward the camera so that my features spread and blur. I’m shouting so loud that the words don’t register, and after a moment my hand comes up, clearly aiming to strike whoever has been filming.

  Then the camera swings wildly, panning in an arc of color to touch briefly upon Faith, cowered in a corner; on my mother in a hospital johnny; on Ian and his producer.

  The tape from the stress test, the footage Ian said he would not use.

  He’s lied to me again. I turn toward the gallery, my eyes scanning until I find him –sitting just as still and white-faced as I must be.

  The only way this tape could have come into Metz’s hands is, somehow, via Ian. And yet to look at him, one would believe that he is as surprised to see it surface in court as I am.

  Before I can consider this, Metz begins to speak.

  “Mrs. White, do you remember this incident?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell us about the day the video was taken?”

  “My mother was having a stress test done after her resuscitation. Mr. Fletcher was being allowed to film it.”

  “What happened?”

  “He promised not to turn the camera on my daughter. When he did turn it on her, I just … reacted.”

  “You just … reacted. Hmm. Is that something you do often?”

  “I was trying to protect Faith and–“

  “A simple yes or no will do, Mrs.

  White.”

  “No.” I swallow hard. “If anything, I usually think things through to death before I act on them.”

  Metz crosses the courtroom. “Would you say this tape shows you being “an emotionally stable person”?”

  I hesitate, choosing my words carefully. “It is not one of my finer moments,

  Mr. Metz. But on the whole I am emotionally stable.”

  “On the whole? What about during those other odd incidents of fury? Is that when you physically harm your daughter?”

  “I do not harm Faith. I’ve never harmed Faith.”

  “Mrs. White, you yourself said you’re an emotionally stable woman, and yet this videotape clearly disproves your claim. So you’ve lied to us under oath, haven’t you?”

  “No–“

  “Come on, now, Mrs. White …”

  “Objection!” Joan calls out.

  “Sustained. You’ve made your point,

  Counselor.”

  Metz smiles at me. “You say you’d never harm your daughter physically?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “You’d never harm her psychologically either,

  right?”

  “Right.”

  “And you’re an intelligent woman. You’ve followed the testimony in this courtroom.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “So if you had Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy, and I accused you of harming your daughter, what would you probably say?”

  I stare at him, bile burning the back of my throat. “That I didn’t do it.”

  “And you’d be lying–just like you lied about being emotionally stable. Just like you’ve lied about protecting Faith.”

  “I don’t lie, Mr. Metz,” I say,

  fighting for control. “I don’t. And I have protected Faith. That’s what you saw me doing on the video–primitively, maybe, but protecting her all the same. It’s why I took her out of school when other children began to tease her. It’s why I took her away, in secret,

  before this hearing started.”

  “Ah, yes. Going into hiding. Let’s talk about that. You disappeared the night after your husband informed you that he’d be filing for a change of custody, correct?”

  “Yes, but–“

  “Then you had the misfortune of discovering that your great escape wasn’t that great, after all. Ian Fletcher had managed to follow you.

  We’ve already proven Mr. Fletcher to have been less than honest up on the witness stand, and now we’ve seen evidence of your own falsehoods.

  Maybe you’d like to tell us–truthfully, for a change–what happened in Kansas City?”

  What happened in Kansas City?

  This, Ian knows, is the moment that Mariah will be able to exact revenge. First the McManus incident, then the video–regardless of the fact that he personally had nothing to do with the latter, it’s not going to soften Mariah’s heart toward him just now.

  Plus, the simplest way for her to regain her credibility is to offer up as proof the evidence that Faith is truly a healer. The evidence that’s all tangled up in the story of Ian’s own brother.

  An eye for an eye. At that, Ian almost laughs. It is downright ironic for him to be brought down by biblical justice. But just as he exploited Mariah’s privacy, she now has the opportunity to uncover his own.

  Ian braces his hands on the wooden seat and prepares himself for Judgment Day.

  What happened in Kansas City?

  Malcolm Metz is standing right in front of me. To his right, I know that Joan is desperately trying to catch my attention so I will not say anything stupid. But the only person I can see is Ian, buried in the middle of the courtroom gallery.

  I think of Dr. Fitzgerald and his testimony. Of Joan walking into her office to find Ian waiting for her, ready to play paralegal. Of the look on Ian’s face when Allen McManus walked up to the witness stand,

  when that horrible videocassette began to play.

  He isn’t perfect. But then again, neither am I.

  I look at Ian, wondering if he can tell what I am thinking. Then I turn to Malcolm Metz. “Absolutely nothing,” I say.

  The bitch is lying. It’s written on her face. Metz would bet his life savings that,

  somehow, Fletcher’s arrival in Kansas City led to direct proof that all the mumbo jumbo surrounding Faith is just that, and that, consequently,

  the miraculous hallucinations and physical trauma are actually being caused by Mariah. Fletcher’s been close-mouthed because he doesn’t want to give away his big story;

  Mariah’s keeping quiet because it only ruins her credibility. But short of accusing her of fabricating testimony again, there’s very little he can do.

  He takes a moment to compose himself. “You love your daughter, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’d do anything for your daughter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you give up your life for her?”

  He can practically see her imagining Faith in that pitiful hospital bed. “I would.”

  “Would you give up custody of her?”

  Mariah falters. “I don’t understand.”

  “What I mean is this, Mrs. White: If it was proven to you by a series of experts that Colin was the better parent for Faith, would you want her to go?”

  Mariah frowns, then looks at Colin. After a moment she faces the attorney again. “Yes.”

  “Nothing further.”

  Furious, Joan asks to r
edirect.

  “Mariah,” she says, “first I want to address that clip of videotape. Can you tell us what happened prior to the outburst on that tape?”

  “Ian Fletcher had sworn that he wouldn’t exploit Faith. It was the only way I agreed to allow him in to film my mother’s stress test. When I turned away for a minute, he had his cameraman pan over to Faith, and I jumped between her and the lens.”

  “What was going through your mind at that moment?”

  “That he not film Faith. The last thing I wanted was more media interest in her. She’s just a little girl; she ought to be allowed to live like one.”

  “Do you think that you were emotionally unstable at that moment?”

  “No. I was steady as a rock. I was completely focused on keeping Faith safe.”

  “Thank you,” Joan says. “Now I want you to consider Mr. Metz’s final question. Under this scenario of his, Faith would be moved to a new environment. She’d be living with the woman she caught in a compromising position with her father.

  She’s got a new sibling coming. She’s not in familiar surroundings. Not to mention the fact that her groupies from the front lawn will probably drive across town to take up residence at her new home. Does this sound like an accurate representation?”

  “Yes,” Mariah says.

  “Good. Now, during this trial, did Colin convince you that he was the better parent for Faith?”

  “No,” Mariah answers, confused.

  “Did Dr. Orlitz, the state-appointed psychiatrist, convince you that Colin was the better parent for Faith?”

  “No,” she says, her voice a little stronger.

  “Did Dr. DeSantis, the private psychiatrist for the plaintiff, convince you that Colin was the better parent for Faith?”

  “No.”

  “How about Allen McManus?”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Fletcher?”

  “No.”

  “What about Dr. Birch? Did he convince you that Colin is the better parent for Faith?”

  Mariah smiles at Joan and pulls the microphone a little closer. Her voice is strong and steady. “No. He did not.”

  After the defense rests, the judge calls a recess. I go to wait in the tiny conference room Joan and I have been using, and after a few minutes the door opens and Ian enters. “Joan told me I’d find you here,” he says quietly.

  “I asked her to.”

  He doesn’t seem to know how to respond.

  “Thank you for finding Dr. Fitzgerald.”

  Ian shrugs. “I sort of owed it to you.”

  “You didn’t owe me anything.”

  Pushing away from the table, I stand and walk toward him. His hands are deeply set in his pockets, as if he is afraid to touch me.

  “Maybe I should thank you, too,” he murmurs. “For what you didn’t say.”

  I shake my head. Sometimes there aren’t words.

  The silence between us is flung wide as an ocean,

  but I manage to reach across it, to wrap my arms around him.

  His hands close over my back; his breath stirs the hair at the nape of my neck. He will be with me. Right now, that’s enough. “Mariah,” he whispers, “you may be my religion.”

  The judge calls the guardian ad litem to the stand. “The attorneys and I have all read your report. Do you have anything you’d like to add at this point?”

  Kenzie nods briskly. “I do. I think the court needs to know that I am the one who let Mariah White into the Medical Center at two A.m. on Sunday.”

  At the plaintiff’s table, Metz’s jaw drops. Joan looks into her lap. The judge asks Kenzie to explain herself.

  “Your Honor, I know that you can hold me in contempt of court and send me to jail. But before you do, I’d like you to hear me out, because I’ve become very attached to the child in this particular case, and I don’t want a mistake to be made.”

  The judge eyes her warily. “Continue.”

  “As you know, I’ve filed a report. I met with many people, and I originally concluded that if the child’s life was at all endangered, moving her out of that situation would be best. So in the paper you’re holding in your hand, I recommend that custody be granted to the father.”

  Metz claps his client on the shoulder and grins.

  “However,” Kenzie says, “I made a decision late Saturday night, after a doctor told Mrs. Epstein that Faith might be dying.

  I didn’t think that the U.s. justice system had the right to keep a mother from saying good-bye. So I called Mrs. White and told her to come to the hospital. I thought, Your Honor, that I was simply being kind … and I would have expected my report to stand on its own.

  “But then something happened.” Kenzie shakes her head. “I wish I could explain it, really.

  All I know is that I saw, with my own eyes,

  a child who was comatose and failing come back from the edge once her mother was at her side.” She hesitates. “The courtroom is no place for personal observation, Your Honor, but I want to share a story with you because it has relevance to my decision. My great-grandmother and great-grandfather were married for sixty-two years. When my great-grandfather died of a stroke, my great-grandma–

  who was in perfect health–passed away two days later. In my family we’ve always said that Nana died of a broken heart. It may not be medically accurate … but then again,

  doctors concentrate on people’s bodies, not their emotions. And if it is possible to die of grief, Judge Rothbottam, then why on earth can’t someone be healed by happiness?”

  Kenzie leans forward. “Your Honor, I switched from being a lawyer to being a guardian ad litem ten years ago, and I have a fairly legal mind. I’ve tried to come at this from a rational viewpoint, and it just doesn’t work. I had people telling me about visions and crying statues and the passion agony of Christ. I had other people telling me about religious hoaxes. I heard about people who were very sick, then completely healthy after brushing Faith in the hospital elevator.

  “I’ve witnessed a lot of inexplicable things lately, but none of them point to the fact that Mariah White is hurting Faith. In fact,

  I think she saved her life. And it’s not going to help this little girl one whit to be moved away from her mother’s influence.” She clears her throat.

  “So I’m sorry, Judge. But I’d like you to completely disregard my report.”

  The courtroom erupts in confusion. Malcolm Metz furiously whispers to Colin. The judge rubs his hand over his face.

  “Your Honor,” Metz says, getting to his feet, “I’d like to give a closing argument.”

  “You know, Mr. Metz, I bet you would.”

  Rothbottam sighs. “But you’re not the one I want to hear from. I’ve listened to you and Ms.

  Standish, and to Ms. van der Hoven, and I don’t know what the heck to believe. I need a little lunch break–and I’d like to spend it with Faith.”

  Mariah turns toward her daughter. Faith’s eyes are wide, confused.

  “What do you say?” Judge Rothbottam asks. He comes out from behind the bench and walks toward the gallery. “Would you like to have lunch with me,

  Faith?”

  Faith glances at her mother, who nods imperceptibly. The judge holds out his hand.

  Faith slides hers into it, and walks out of the courtroom beside him.

  She likes his chair. It goes around and around,

  faster than the one at her father’s office. And she likes the music he plays. Faith glances at the collection of compact discs on one shelf.

  “Do you have Disney stuff?”

  Judge Rothbottam plucks out a CD,

  slides it into the player, and the strains of the Broadway-cast recording of The Lion King fill the room. As he shrugs out of his robes, Faith gasps.

  “What is it?” he asks.

  She looks down, feeling her cheeks heat the way they do when she’s caught stealing a brownie before dinner. “I didn’t know you had clothes on under there.”

&
nbsp; At that, the judge laughs. “Last time I checked.” He sits down across from her. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

  She nods over the turkey sandwich he’s placed on the massive desk for her. “Me,

  too.”

  He draws a chair closer. “Faith, who do you want to live with?”

  “I want them together,” she says. “But I can’t have that, right?”

  “No.” Judge Rothbottam looks at her. “Does God talk to you, Faith?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Do you know that a lot of people are interested in you because of that?”

  “Yes.”

  The judge hesitates. “How do I know if you’re telling the truth?”

  Faith lifts her face to his. “When you’re in court, how do you tell?”

  “Well, people swear it. On a Bible.”

  “If I’m not telling the truth … then wouldn’t they just be saying words over some book?”

  He grins. So much for God not belonging in a courtroom; He’s already there.

  But Faith’s God, according to the media, is a She. “People have pictured God as a man for many years,” he points out.

  “My teacher in first grade said that long ago people used to believe all kinds of things, because they didn’t know any better. Like you shouldn’t take a bath, because it could make you sick. And then someone saw germs under a microscope and started to think different. You can believe something really hard,”

  Faith says, “and still be wrong.”

  Rothbottam stares at Faith, and wonders if maybe this girl isn’t a prophet after all.

  Judge Rothbottam slides his half-glasses down his nose and glances out at the plaintiff, the defendant, and the tightly packed gallery of reporters. “I stood up several days ago and told you that in a trial, there’s only one God, and that’s the judge. A very wise young woman reminded me that’s not necessarily the case.” He holds up the Bible. “As Mr.

  Fletcher pointed out so eloquently during his swearing-in, we do still rely on convention in a court, regardless of one’s religious tendencies.

  “Now, I’m not here to talk about religious tendencies. I’m here to talk about Faith White. The two subjects are related, but not mutually exclusive. As I see it, we’ve raised two questions here: Is God talking to Faith White? And is Mariah White harming her child?”