Perfect Match

by Jodi Picoult

  "Had you ever considered her to be violent before?"

  "No."

  "In fact, on that morning, she seemed nothing like the Nina Frost you knew, isn't that right?"

  "Well, you know, she looked the same."

  "But her actions, Mr. Ianucci ... had you ever seen Mrs. Frost act like this before?"

  The bailiff shakes his head. "I never saw her shoot nobody, if that's what you mean."

  "It is," Fisher says, sitting down. "Nothing further."

  That afternoon when court is adjourned, I don't go directly home. Risking an extra fifteen minutes' grace before my electronic bracelet is reactivated, I drive to St. Anne's and enter the church where this all began.

  The nave is open to the public, although I don't think they've found a replacement chaplain yet. Inside, it's dark. My shoes strike the tile, announce my presence.

  To my right is a table where white votives burn in tiers. Taking a stick, I light one for Glen Szyszynski. I light a second one for Arthur Gwynne.

  Then I slip into a pew and get down on the kneeler. "Hail Mary, Full of Grace," I whisper, praying to a woman who stood by her son, too.

  The lights in the motel room go out at eight, Nathaniel's bedtime. Beside his son, on a matching twin bed, Caleb lies with his hands folded behind his head, waiting for Nathaniel to fall asleep. Then, sometimes, Caleb will watch TV. Turn on one lamp and read the day's paper.

  Today he wants to do neither. He is in no mood to hear local pundits guessing Nina's fate based on the first day of testimony. Hell, he doesn't want to guess, himself.

  One thing is clear: The woman all those witnesses saw; the woman on that videotape--she isn't the woman Caleb married. And when your wife is not the same person you fell in love with eight years ago, where exactly does that leave you? Do you try to get to know who she has become, and hope for the best? Or do you keep deceiving yourself in the hope that she might wake up one morning and have gone back to the woman she used to be?

  Maybe, Caleb thinks with a small shock, he isn't the same person he once was, either.

  That brings him directly to the topic he didn't want to remember, especially not now in the dark with nothing to distract him. This afternoon, when Patrick had come to the conference room to bring them the news of Gwynne's death ... well, Caleb must be reading into things. After all, Nina and Patrick have known each other a lifetime. And although the guy is something of an albatross, his relationship with Nina has never really bothered Caleb, because when push came to shove he was the one sleeping with Nina every night.

  But Caleb has not been sleeping with Nina.

  He squeezes his eyes shut, as if this might block out the memory of Patrick turning away abruptly when Nina put her arms around Caleb. That, in and of itself, wasn't disturbing--Caleb could list a hundred times that Nina touched him or smiled at him in the other man's presence that unsettled Patrick in some way ... even if Nina never seemed to see. In fact, there have been times Caleb's even felt sorry for Patrick, for the blatant jealousy on his face the moment before he masks it.

  Today, though, it wasn't envy in Patrick's eyes. It was grief. And that is why Caleb cannot pull away from the incident; cannot stop picking the moment apart like a carrion vulture going for the bone. Envy, after all, comes from wanting something that isn't yours.

  But grief comes from losing something you've already had.

  Nathaniel hates this stupid playroom with its stupid book corner and its stupid bald dolls and its stupid crayon box that doesn't even have a yellow. He hates the way the tables smell like a hospital and the floor is cold under his socks. He hates Monica, whose smile reminds Nathaniel of the time he took an orange wedge at the Chinese restaurant and stuffed it into his mouth, rind out, in a silly, fake grin. Most of all he hates knowing that his mom and dad are just twenty-two stairs up but Nathaniel isn't allowed to join them.

  "Nathaniel," Monica says, "why don't we finish this tower?"

  It is made of blocks; they built it all afternoon yesterday and put a special sign on overnight, asking the janitors to leave it until this morning.

  "How high do you think we can go?"

  It is already taller than Nathaniel; Monica has brought over a chair so that he can keep building. She has a small stack of blocks ready to go.

  "Be careful," she warns as he climbs onto the chair.

  He places the first block at the top, and the whole structure wobbles. The second time, it seems certain to fall over--and then doesn't. "That was close," Monica says.

  He imagines that this is New York City, and he is a giant. A Tyrannosaurus rex. Or King Kong. He eats buildings this big like they are carrot sticks. With a great swipe of his enormous paw, Nathaniel swings at the top of the tower.

  It falls in a great, clattering heap.

  Monica looks so sad that for just the slightest moment, Nathaniel feels awful. "Oh," she sighs. "Why'd you do that?"

  Satisfaction curls the corners of his mouth, blooming from a root inside. But Nathaniel doesn't tell her what he's thinking: Because I could.

  Joseph Toro looks nervous to be in a courtroom, and I can't blame him. The last time I saw the man he was cowering beside the bench, covered with his own client's blood and brain matter.

  "Had you met with Glen Szyszynski before you came to court that day?" Quentin asks.

  "Yes," the attorney says timidly. "In jail, pending the arraignment."

  "What did he say about the alleged crime?"

  "He categorically denied it."

  "Objection," Fisher calls out. "Relevance?"

  "Sustained."

  Quentin reconsiders. "What was Father Szyszynski's demeanor the morning of October thirtieth?"

  "Objection." Fisher stands this time. "Same grounds."

  Judge Neal looks at the witness. "I'd like to hear this."

  "He was scared to death," Toro murmurs. "He was resigned. Praying. He read to me aloud, from the book of Matthew. The part where Christ keeps saying 'My God, why hast thou forsaken me?'"

  "What happened when they brought your client in?" Quentin asks.

  "They walked him to the defense table where I was sitting."

  "And where was Mrs. Frost at the time?"

  "Sitting behind us, and to the left."

  "Had you spoken with Mrs. Frost that morning?"

  "No," Toro answers. "I'd never even met her."

  "Did you notice anything unusual about her?"

  "Objection," Fisher says. "He didn't know her, so how could he judge what was and wasn't customary?"

  "Overruled," the judge answers.

  Toro looks at me, a bird gathering courage to dart a glance at the cat sitting a few feet away. "There was something unusual. I was waiting for her to come in ... because she was the mother of the alleged victim, of course ... but she was late. Her husband was there, waiting ... but Mrs. Frost almost missed the beginning of the arraignment. I thought of all days, it seemed very strange that on this one, she wouldn't be on time."

  I listen to his testimony, but I am watching Quentin Brown. To a prosecutor, a defendant is nothing but a victory or a loss. They are not real people; they do not have lives that interest you beyond the crime that brought them into court. As I stare at him, Brown suddenly turns. His expression is cool, dispassionate--one I have cultivated in my repertoire as well. In fact I have had all the same training as him, but there is a gulf between us. This case is only his job, after all. But it is my future.

  The Alfred courthouse is old, and the bathrooms are no exception. Caleb finishes up at the long trough of the urinal just as someone comes to stand beside him. He averts his eyes as the other man unzips, then steps back to wash his hands, and realizes it is Patrick.

  When Patrick turns, he does a double-take. "Caleb?"

  The bathroom is empty, save the two of them. Caleb folds his arms, waits for Patrick to soap his hands and dry them with a paper towel. He is waiting, and he doesn't know why. He just understands that at this moment, he can't leave yet, eit
her.

  "How is she today?" Patrick asks.

  Caleb finds that he cannot answer, cannot force a single word out.

  "It must be hell for her, sitting in there."

  "I know." Caleb forces himself to look directly at Patrick, to make him understand this is not a casual reply, is not even a sequitur. "I know," he repeats.

  Patrick looks away, swallows. "Did she ... did she tell you?"

  "She didn't have to."

  The only sound is the rush of water in the long urinal. "You want to hit me?" Patrick says after a moment. He splays his arms wide. "Go ahead. Hit me."

  Slowly, Caleb shakes his head. "I want to. I don't think I've ever wanted anything as much. But I'm not going to, because it's too fucking sad." He takes a step toward Patrick, pointing his finger at the other man's chest. "You moved back here to be near Nina. You've lived your whole life for a woman who doesn't live hers for you. You waited until she was skating over a weak spot, and then you made sure you were the first thing she could grab onto." He turns away. "I don't have to hit you, Patrick. You're already pathetic."

  Caleb walks toward the bathroom door but is stopped by Patrick's voice. "Nina used to write me every other day. I was overseas, in the service, and that was the only thing I looked forward to." He smiles faintly. "She told me when she met you. Told me where you took her on dates. But the time she told me that she'd climbed some mountain with you ... that was when I knew I'd lost her."

  "Mount Katahdin? Nothing happened that day."

  "No. You just climbed it, and came down," Patrick says. "Thing is, Nina's terrified of heights. She gets so sick, sometimes, that she faints. But she loved you so much, she was willing to follow you anywhere. Even three thousand feet up." He pushes away from the wall, approaching Caleb. "You know what's pathetic? That you get to live with this ... this goddess. That out of all the guys in the world, she picked you. You were handed this incredible gift, and you don't even know it's in front of you."

  Then Patrick pushes past Caleb, knocking him against the wall. He needs to get out of that bathroom, before he is foolish enough to reveal the whole of his heart.

  Frankie Martine is a prosecutor's witness--that is to say, she answers questions clearly and concisely, making science accessible to even the high school dropout on a jury. Quentin spends nearly an hour walking her through the mechanics of bone marrow transplants, and she manages to keep the jury's interest. Then she segues into the mechanics of her day job--spinning out DNA. I once spent three days at the state lab with Frankie, in fact, getting her to show me how she does it. I wanted to know, so that I'd fully grasp the results that were sent to me.

  Apparently, I didn't learn enough.

  "Your DNA is the same in every cell in your body," Frankie explains. "That means if you take a blood sample from someone, the DNA in those blood cells will match the DNA in their skin cells, tissue cells, and bodily fluids like saliva and semen. That's why Mr. Brown asked me to take DNA from Father Szyszynski's blood sample and use it to see if it matched the DNA found in the semen on the underpants."

  "And did you do that?" Quentin asks.

  "Yes, I did."

  He hands Frankie the lab report--the original one, which was left anonymously in my mailbox. "What were your findings?"

  Unlike some of the other witnesses the prosecutor's put on the stand, Frankie meets my eye. I don't read sympathy there, but I don't read disgust either. Then again, this is a woman who is faced daily with the forensic proof of what people are capable of doing to others in the name of love. "I determined that the chance of randomly selecting an unrelated individual from the population other than the suspect, whose DNA matched the semen DNA at all the locations we tested, was one in six billion."

  Quentin looks at the jury. "Six billion? Isn't that the approximate population of the whole earth?"

  "I believe so."

  "Well, what does all this have to do with bone marrow?"

  Frankie shifts on her seat. "After I'd issued these results, the attorney general's office asked me to research the findings in light of Father Szyszynksi's medical records. Seven years ago, he'd had a bone marrow transplant, which means, basically, that his blood was on long-term loan ... borrowed from a donor. It also means that the DNA we got from that blood--the DNA that was typed to match the semen in the underwear--was not Father Szyszynski's DNA, but rather his donor's." She looks at the jury, making sure they are nodding before she continues. "If we'd taken saliva from Father Szyszynksi, or semen, or even skin--anything but his blood--it would have excluded him as a donor to the semen stain in the child's underwear."

  Quentin lets this sink in. "Wait a second. You're telling me that if someone has a bone marrow transplant, they've got two different types of DNA in their body?"

  "Exactly. It's extremely rare, which is why it's the exception and not the rule, and why DNA testing is still the most accurate kind of evidentiary proof." Frankie takes out another lab report, an updated one. "As you can see here, it's possible to test someone who's had a bone marrow transplant to prove that they've got two different profiles of DNA. We extract tooth pulp, which contains both tissue and blood cells. If someone's had a bone marrow transplant, those tissue cells should show one profile of DNA, and the blood cells should show another."

  "Is that what you found when you extracted tooth pulp from Father Szyszynski?"

  "Yes."

  Quentin shakes his head, feigning amazement. "So I guess Father Szyszynski was the one person in six billion whose DNA might match the DNA found in the underwear ... but who wouldn't have been the one to leave it there?"

  Frankie folds the report and slips in into her case file. "That's right," she says.

  "You've worked with Nina Frost on a few cases, haven't you?" Fisher asks moments later.

  "Yes," Frankie replies. "I have."

  "She's pretty thorough, isn't she?"

  "Yes. She's one of the DAs who calls all the time, checking up on the results we fax in. She's even come to the lab. A lot of the prosecutors don't bother, but Nina really wanted to make sure she understood. She likes to follow through from beginning to end."

  Fisher slants a look my way. Tell me about it. But he says, "It's very important for her to make sure that she has the facts straight, isn't it?"

  "Yes."

  "She isn't someone who'd jump to a conclusion, or rely on something she was told without double-checking it?"

  "Not that I've seen," Frankie admits.

  "When you issue your lab reports, Ms. Martine, you expect them to be accurate, don't you?"

  "Of course."

  "You issued a report, in fact, that said the chances of somebody other than Father Szyszynski contributing this semen to Nathaniel Frost's underwear were less than one in the population of the whole earth?"

  "Yes."

  "You never put anything in that report qualifying your results in the case that the suspect was a bone marrow transplant recipient, did you? Because that's such a rare event that even you, as a scientist, would never assume it?"

  "Statistics are statistics ... an estimation."

  "But when you handed that initial report to the DA's office, you were prepared to ask the prosecutor to rely on it?"

  "Yes."

  "You were prepared to ask a jury of twelve people to rely on it as evidence to convict Father Szyszynski?"

  "Yes," Frankie says.

  "You were prepared to ask the judge to rely on it when he sentenced Father Szyszynski?"

  "Yes."

  "And you were prepared to ask Nina Frost, the child's mother, to rely on it for closure and peace of mind?"

  "Yes."

  Fisher turns to the witness. "Then is it any wonder in your mind, Ms. Martine, that she did?"

  "Of course Quentin objected," Fisher says, his mouth full of pepperoni pizza. "That's not the point. The point is that I didn't withdraw the question before I dismissed the witness. The jury's going to notice that nuance."

  "You are giving far
too much credit to a jury," I argue. "I'm not saying the cross wasn't fantastic, Fisher, it was. But ... watch it, you're going to get sauce on your tie."

  He looks down, then flips the tie over his shoulder and laughs. "You're a riot, Nina. At what point during this trial do you think you might actually start to root for the defense?"

  Never, I think. Maybe it is easier for Fisher, a defense attorney, to come up with rationalizations for why people do the things they do. After all, when you have to stand up next to felons on a daily basis and fight for their freedom, you either convince yourself they had some excuse for committing a crime ... or you tell yourself this is nothing but a job, and if you lie on their behalf it's all in the name of billable hours. After seven years as a prosecutor, the world looks very black and white. Granted, it was easy enough to persuade myself that I was morally righteous when I believed I'd killed a child molester. But to be absolved of murdering a man who was blameless--well, even Johnnie Cochran must have nightmares every now and then.

  "Fisher?" I ask quietly. "Do you think I ought to be punished?"

  He wipes his hands on a napkin. "Would I be here if I did?"

  "For what you're making, you'd probably stand in the middle of a gladiator's ring."

  Smiling, he meets my eye. "Nina, relax. I will get you acquitted."

  But I shouldn't be. The truth lies at the base of my stomach, even though I can't say it aloud. What good is the legal process if people can decide their motives are bigger than the law? If you remove one brick from the foundation, how long before the whole system tumbles down?

  Maybe I can be pardoned for wanting to protect my child, but there are plenty of parents who shelter their children without committing felonies. I can tell myself that I was only thinking of my son that day; that I was only acting like a good mother ... but the truth is, I wasn't. I was acting like a prosecutor, one who didn't trust the court process when it became personally relevant. One who knew better than to do what I did. Which is exactly why I deserve to be convicted.

  "If I can't even forgive myself," I say finally, "how are twelve other people going to do it?"

  The door opens and Caleb enters. Suddenly the atmosphere is plucked tight as a bowstring. Fisher glances at me--he knows that Caleb and I have been estranged, lately--and then balls his napkin up and tosses it into the box. "Caleb! There's a couple slices left." He stands up. "I'm going to go take care ... of that thing we were talking about," Fisher says vacuously, and he gets out of the room while he can.