Perfect Match

by Jodi Picoult

  Caleb sits across from me. The clock on the wall, fast by five minutes, ticks as loud as my heart. "Hungry?" I ask.

  He traces the sharp corner of the pizza box. "I'm starving," Caleb answers.

  But he makes no move to take one of the slices. Instead, we both watch as his fingers creep forward, as he clasps my hand between both of his. He scoots his chair closer and bows his head until it touches our joined fists. "Let's start over," he murmurs.

  If I have gained anything over these months, it is the knowledge there is no starting over--only living with the mistakes you've made. But then, Caleb taught me long ago you can't build anything without some sort of foundation. Maybe we learn to live our lives by understanding, firsthand, how not to live them.

  "Let's just pick up where we left off," I reply, and I rest my cheek on the crown of Caleb's head.

  How far can a person go ... and still live with himself?

  It's something that's been haunting Patrick. There are certain acts for which you easily make excuses--killing during wartime; stealing food if you're starving; lying to save your own life. But narrow the circumstances, bring them closer to home--and suddenly, the faith of a man who's dedicated his life to morality gets seriously shaken. Patrick doesn't blame Nina for shooting Glen Szyszynski, because at that moment she truly believed it was her only option. Likewise, he doesn't consider making love with her on Christmas Eve to be wrong. He'd waited for Nina for years; when she finally was his--even for a night--the fact of her marriage to another man was inconsequential. Who was to say that the bond between Patrick and Nina was any less strong because there was no piece of paper sanctifying it?

  Justification is a remarkable thing--takes all those solid lines and blurs them, so that honor becomes as supple as a willow, and ethics burst like soap bubbles.

  If Nina chose to leave Caleb, Patrick would be at her side in an instant, and he could come up with a multitude of reasons to defend his behavior. Truth be told, it's something he's let himself consider in the soft gray moments before sleep comes. Hope is his balm for reality; if Patrick spreads it thick enough, sometimes he can even envision a life with her.

  But then, there's Nathaniel.

  And that's the point Patrick cannot get past. He can rationalize falling in love with Nina; he can even rationalize her falling in love with him. There's nothing he would like more than to see Caleb gone from her life. But Caleb is not just Nina's husband ... he is also the father of her son. And Patrick could not bear knowing that he was responsible for ruining Nathaniel's childhood. If Patrick did that after all that has happened, well ... how could she ever love him?

  Compared to a transgression of that size, what he is about to do seems insignificant.

  He watches Quentin Brown from the witness box. The prosecutor is expecting this to go easily--just as easily as it did during the practice session. After all, Patrick is a law enforcement official, used to testifying. As far as Brown knows, despite his friendship with Nina, he's on the side of the prosecution. "Were you assigned to work the Nathaniel Frost case?" Quentin asks.

  "Yes."

  "How did the defendant react to your investigation of the case?"

  Patrick can't look at Nina, not yet. He doesn't want to give himself away. "She was an incredibly concerned parent."

  This is not the answer they have rehearsed. Patrick watches Quentin do a double-take, then feed him the response he was supposed to give. "Did you ever see her lose her temper during the case?"

  "At times she'd become distraught. Her child wasn't speaking. She didn't know what to do." Patrick shrugs. "Who wouldn't get frustrated in a situation like that?"

  Quentin sends him a quelling glance. Commentary on the stand is not necessary, or desired. "Who was your first suspect in the molestation case?"

  "We didn't have a suspect until Glen Szyszynski."

  By now, Quentin looks ready to throttle him. "Did you bring in another man for questioning?"

  "Yes. Caleb Frost."

  "Why did you bring him in?"

  Patrick shakes his head. "The child was using sign language to communicate, and he ID'd his abuser with the sign for father. At the time, we didn't understand he meant priest, rather than daddy." He looks directly at Caleb, in the front row behind Nina. "That was my mistake," Patrick says.

  "What was the defendant's reaction to her son signing father?"

  Fisher rises from his seat, poised to object, but Patrick speaks quickly. "She took it very seriously. Her primary concern was always, always, protecting her child." Confused, the attorney sits back down beside Nina.

  "Detective Ducharme--" the prosecutor interrupts.

  "I'm not quite done yet, Mr. Brown. I was going to say that I'm sure it tore her up inside, but she got a restraining order against her husband, because she thought it was the best way to keep Nathaniel safe."

  Quentin walks closer to Patrick, hisses through his teeth so that only his witness will hear. "What the hell are you doing?" Then he faces the jury. "Detective, at what point did you make the decision to arrest Father Szyszynski?"

  "After Nathaniel gave a verbal disclosure, I went down to talk to him."

  "Did you arrest him at that moment?"

  "No. I was hoping he'd confess first. We always hope for that in molestation cases."

  "Did Father Szyszynski ever admit to sexually abusing Nathaniel Frost?"

  Patrick has been a witness at enough trials to know that the question is blatantly unacceptable, because it calls for hearsay. The judge and the prosecutor both stare at Fisher Carrington, waiting for him to object. But by now, Nina's lawyer has caught on. He sits at the defense table with his hands steepled, watching this unfold. "Child molesters almost never admit they've hurt a child," Patrick says, filling the silence. "They know jail's not going to be a pleasant place for them. And frankly, without a confession, a molestation trial is a roll of the dice. Nearly half the time, these guys get off because of insufficient evidence or because the child is too terrified to testify, or because they do testify and the jury doesn't believe the word of a kid ..."

  Quentin breaks in before Patrick can do any further damage. "Your Honor, may we have a recess?"

  The judge looks over his bifocals at him. "We are in the middle of the direct."

  "Yes, Judge, I'm aware of that."

  Shrugging, Neal turns to Fisher. "Does the defense object to stopping at this point?"

  "I don't believe so, Your Honor. But I would ask the Court to remind all counsel that the witnesses have been sequestered and can't be approached during the break."

  "Fine," Quentin grits out. He storms from the courtroom so quickly he doesn't see Patrick finally make eye contact with Nina, smile gently at her, and wink.

  "Why is this cop working for us?" Fisher demands, as soon as he's bustled me into a private conference room upstairs.

  "Because he's my friend. He's always been there for me." At least, that is the only explanation I can give. I knew, of course, that Patrick would have to testify against me, and I didn't take it to heart. Part of what makes Patrick Patrick is his absolute devotion to the clear line dividing right and wrong. It is why he would not let me talk to him about the murder; it is why he has wrestled so hard to stand by my side while I was awaiting trial. It is why his offer to find Father Gwynne on my behalf meant so very much to me, and was so difficult for him.

  It is why, when I think back to Christmas Eve, I cannot believe it ever happened.

  Fisher seems to be considering this odd gift that has dropped into his lap. "Is there anything I should watch out for? Anything he won't do to protect you?"

  The reason we slept together isn't because Patrick tossed morality to the wind that night. It's because he was too damn honest to convince himself the feelings weren't there.

  "He won't lie," I answer.

  Quentin returns on the attack. Whatever game this detective's playing, it's going to stop right now. "Why were you in court the morning of October thirtieth?"

&nb
sp; "It was my case," Ducharme answers coolly.

  "Did you speak to the defendant that morning?"

  "Yes. I spoke with both Mr. and Mrs. Frost. They were both very nervous. We discussed who they could leave Nathaniel with during the proceedings, because naturally, they were very wary of putting him into anyone's care at that point."

  "What did you do when the defendant shot Father Szyszynski?"

  Ducharme meets the prosecutor's gaze head on. "I saw a gun, and I went for it."

  "Did you know Mrs. Frost had a gun before that point?"

  "No."

  "How many officers did it take to wrestle her to the ground?"

  "She dropped to the ground," the detective corrects. "Four bailiffs dropped on top of her."

  "Then what did you do?"

  "I asked for cuffs. Deputy Ianucci gave me a pair. I secured Mrs. Frost's hands behind her back and took her into the holding cell."

  "How long were you in there with her?"

  "Four hours."

  "Did she say anything to you?"

  In the practice session, Ducharme had told Quentin that the defendant confessed to him that she'd committed a crime. But now, he puts on a choirboy's expression and looks at the jury. "She kept repeating over and over, 'I did everything I could; I can't do any more.' She sounded crazy."

  Crazy? "Objection," Quentin roars.

  "Your Honor, it's his own witness!" Fisher says.

  "Overruled, Mr. Brown."

  "Approach!" Quentin storms up to the bench. "Judge, I'm going to ask to have this witness declared hostile, so that I can ask leading questions."

  Judge Neal looks at Ducharme, then back at the prosecutor. "Counselor, he is answering your questions."

  "Not the way he's supposed to be!"

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Brown. But that's your problem."

  Quentin takes a deep breath, turning away. The real issue here isn't that Patrick Ducharme is single-handedly destroying this case. The issue is why.

  Either Ducharme is holding a grudge against Quentin, whom he does not even really know ... or he's trying to help Nina Frost for some reason. He glances up, and notices the detective and the defendant staring at each other, a bond so charged that Quentin imagines walking through it might give him a shock.

  Well.

  "How long have you known the defendant?" he asks evenly.

  "Thirty years."

  "That long?"

  "Yes."

  "Can you describe your relationship with her?"

  "We work together."

  My ass, Quentin thinks. I'd bet my retirement pension you play together, too. "Do you ever see her outside the office in a nonprofessional capacity?"

  It might not be noticeable to someone watching less closely than Quentin ... but Patrick Ducharme's jaw tightens. "I know her family. We have lunch together every now and then."

  "How did you feel when you heard this had happened to Nathaniel?"

  "Objection," Carrington calls out.

  The judge rubs a finger over his upper lip. "I'll allow it."

  "I was concerned for the boy," the detective answers.

  "How about Nina Frost? Were you concerned for her?"

  "Of course. She's a colleague."

  "Is that all?" Quentin accuses.

  He is prepared for Ducharme's reaction--a face bleached completely of color. An added bonus: the way Nina Frost looks as if she's been molded of stone. Bingo, Quentin thinks.

  "Objection!"

  "Overruled," the judge says, narrowing his eyes at the detective.

  "We've been friends for a long time." Ducharme picks through a minefield of words. "I knew Nina was upset, and I did what I could to make it easier."

  "Such as ... help her kill the priest?"

  Nina Frost shoots out of her seat at the defense table. "Objection!"

  Her attorney shoves her back down. Patrick Ducharme looks ready to kill Quentin, which is fine by him, now that the jury thinks it's possible the detective could have been an accessory to one murder already. "How long have you been a policeman?"

  "Three years."

  "And before that, you were a detective in the military police?"

  "Yes, for five years."

  Quentin nods. "As an investigator and a detective and a police officer in both the United States military and the Biddeford Police Department, how often have you testified?"

  "Dozens of times."

  "You are aware that as a witness, you're under oath, Detective."

  "Of course."

  "You've told the court today that during the four hours you spent in a holding cell with the defendant, she sounded crazy."

  "That's right."

  Quentin looks at him. "The day after Father Szyszynski was murdered, you and Detective Chao came in to talk to me at the district attorney's office. Do you remember what you told me then about the defendant's state of mind?"

  There is a long stalemate. Finally Ducharme turns away. "I said she knew exactly what she was doing, and that if it was my son, I'd have done the same thing."

  "So ... your opinion the day after the shooting was that Nina Frost was perfectly sane. And your opinion today is that she was crazy. Which one is it, Detective ... and what on earth did she do between then and now to make you change your mind?" Quentin asks, and he sinks into his chair and smiles.

  Fisher is playing the insider with the jury, but I can barely even follow his words. Watching Patrick on the stand has turned me inside out. "You know," Fisher begins, "I think Mr. Brown was trying to imply something about your relationship with Mrs. Frost that isn't accurate, and I'd like to have a chance to make clear to the jury what is true. You and Nina were close friends as children, isn't that right?"

  "Yes."

  "And like all children, you probably told a fib every now and then?"

  "I suppose so," Patrick says.

  "But that's a far cry from perjury, isn't it?"

  "Yes."

  "Like all children, you two hatched plots and schemes and maybe even carried through with them?"

  "Sure."

  Fisher spreads his hands. "But that's a far cry from planning a murder, right?"

  "Absolutely."

  "And as children, you two were particularly close. Even now, you're particularly close. But that's all you two are--friends. Correct?"

  Patrick looks directly at me. "Of course," he says.

  The state rests. Me, I'm too keyed up for that. I pace the confines of the small conference room where I have been left alone--Caleb is checking on Nathaniel, and Fisher has left to call his office. I am standing by the window--something Fisher's told me not to do, because photographers down there have some super telephoto lenses they're using--when the door cracks and the sound from the hallway oozes inside. "How is he?" I ask without turning around, assuming Caleb has returned.

  "Tired," Patrick answers, "but I figure I'll bounce back."

  I whirl around and walk to him, but now there is a wall between us, one only he and I can see. Patrick's eyes, that beautiful blue, are swimming with shadows.

  I state the obvious. "You lied about us. On the stand."

  "Did I?" He comes closer, and it hurts. To have so little space between us, and to know I cannot erase it entirely.

  We are only friends. It's all we're ever going to be. We can wonder, we can pretend otherwise for a single evening, but that is not the measure of a life together. There is no way to know what might have happened if I hadn't met Caleb; if Patrick hadn't gone overseas. But I've made a world with Caleb. I can't cut out that piece of myself, any more than I can carve away the part of my heart that belongs to Patrick.

  I love them both; I always will. But this isn't about me.

  "I didn't lie, Nina. I did the right thing." Patrick's hand comes up to my face, and I turn my cheek into his palm.

  I will be leaving him. I will be leaving everyone.

  "The right thing," I repeat, "is thinking before I act, so that I stop hurting the people I love."

>   "Your family," he murmurs.

  I shake my head. "No," I say, my good-bye. "I meant you."

  After court is dismissed, Quentin goes to a bar. But he doesn't particularly feel like drinking, so he gets into his car and drives aimlessly. He goes to a Wal-Mart and buys $104.35 of items he does not need; he stops at a McDonald's for dinner. It isn't until two hours later that he realizes he has somewhere he needs to be.

  It is dark by the time he pulls up to Tanya's house, and he has trouble getting the passenger out of the car. It wasn't as difficult as you'd imagine to find a plastic skeleton; the Halloween merchandise at the costume store was discounted sixty percent, heaped into an untidy corner.

  He hauls the skeleton up the driveway like a buddy who's drunk too much, phalanges dragging on the gravel, and he uses one long bony finger to push in the doorbell. A few moments later, Tanya answers the door.

  She's still wearing her scrubs, and her braids are pulled back into a ponytail. "Okay," she says, looking at Quentin and the skeleton. "I've got to hear this."

  He shifts position, so that he can hold the skull and let the rest dangle, freeing up one hand. Quentin points to the shoulder. "Scapula," he recites. "Ischium, ilium. Maxilla, mandible, fibula, cuboid." He has labeled each of these on the appropriate bone, with a black permanent marker.

  Tanya starts to close the door. "You've lost it, Quentin."

  "No!" He wedges the wrist of the skeleton inside. "Don't." Taking a deep breath, Quentin says, "I bought this for you. I wanted to show you ... that I didn't forget what you taught me."

  She tilts her head. God, he used to love the way she did that. And how she'd massage her own neck when the muscles got sore. He looks at this woman, who he does not know at all any longer, and thinks she looks just the way home should.

  Tanya's fingers slip over the bones he could not recall, wide white ribs and parts of the knee and ankle. Then she reaches for Quentin's arm, and smiles. "You got a lot left to learn," she replies, and she tugs him inside.

  *

  That night I dream that I am in court, sitting next to Fisher, when the hair stands up on the back of my neck. The air gets heavier, harder to breathe, and behind me whispers run like mice on the hardscrabble floor. "All rise," the clerk says, and I'm about to, but then there is the cold click of a gun against my scalp, the surge and stream of a bullet in my brain, and I am falling; I am falling.