Perfect Match

by Jodi Picoult

  "Sounds great."

  Caleb turns to Nathaniel and tells him they are going to get a snack. He runs to the door, and Caleb walks up behind him. "Come on," he says to Nina. "We're ready."

  She stares at him as if they have never had a conversation, much less one thirty seconds ago. "To do what?" she asks.

  Patrick sits on a bench behind the courthouse, freezing his ass off, and watching Nathaniel whoop his way across a field. Why this child has so much energy at four-thirty in the afternoon is beyond him, but then he can remember back to when he and Nina used to spend entire days playing pond hockey without tiring or getting frostbite. Maybe time is only something you notice when you get old and have less of it at your disposal.

  The boy collapses beside Patrick, his cheeks a fiery red, his nose running. "Got a tissue, Patrick?"

  He shakes his head. "Sorry, Weed. Use your sleeve."

  Nathaniel laughs, and then does just that. He ducks his head beneath Patrick's arm, and it makes Patrick want to shout. If only Nina could see this, her son seeking out someone's touch--oh, God, what it would do for her morale right now. He hugs Nathaniel close, drops a kiss on the top of his head.

  "I like playing with you," Nathaniel says.

  "Well, I like playing with you too."

  "You don't yell."

  Patrick glances down at him. "Your mom been doing that?"

  Nathaniel shrugs, then nods. "It's like she got stolen and they left someone mean in her place who looks just like her. Someone who can't sit still and who doesn't hear me when I talk and when I do talk it's always giving her a headache." He looks into his lap. "I want my old mom back."

  "She wants that too, Weed." Patrick looks to the west, where the sun has begun to draw blood from the horizon. "Truth is, she's pretty nervous right now. She isn't sure what kind of news she's going to hear." When Nathaniel shrugs, he adds, "You know she loves you."

  "Well," the boy says defensively. "I love her too."

  Patrick nods. You're not the only one, he thinks.

  *

  "A mistrial?" I say, shaking my head. "No. Fisher, I can't go through this again. You know trials don't get any better with age."

  "You're thinking like a prosecutor," Fisher admonishes, "except this time, you're right." He turns around from the window where he is standing. "I want you to chew on something tonight."

  "What?"

  "Waiving the jury. I'll talk to Quentin in the morning, if you agree, and see if he's willing to let the judge decide the verdict."

  I stare at him. "You know that we were trying this case on the emotion, not the law. A jury might acquit based on emotion. But a judge is always going to rule based on the law. Are you crazy?"

  "No, Nina," Fisher answers soberly. "But neither were you."

  We lie in bed that night with the weight of a full moon pressing down on us. I have told Caleb about my conversation with Fisher, and now we both stare at the ceiling, as if the answer might appear, skywritten with stars. I want Caleb to take my hand across the great expanse of this bed. I need that, to believe we are not miles apart.

  "What do you think?" he asks.

  I turn to him. In the moonlight his profile is edged in gold, the color of courage. "I'm not making decisions by myself anymore," I answer.

  He comes up on an elbow, turning to me. "What would happen?"

  I swallow, and try to keep my voice from shaking. "Well, a judge is going to convict me, because legally, I committed murder. But the upside is ... I probably won't be sentenced as long as I would have been with a jury verdict."

  Suddenly Caleb's face looms over mine. "Nina ... you can't go to jail."

  I turn away, so that the tear slips down the side of my face he cannot see. "I knew I was taking this chance when I did it."

  His hands tighten on my shoulders. "You can't. You just can't."

  "I'll be back."

  "When?"

  "I don't know."

  Caleb buries his face in my neck, drawing in great draughts of air. And then suddenly I am clutching at him, too, as if there cannot be any distance between us today, because tomorrow there will be so much. I feel the rough pads of his hands mark my back; and the heat of his grief is searing. When he comes inside me I dig my nails into his shoulders, trying to leave behind a trace of myself. We make love with near violence, with so much emotion that the atmosphere around us hums. And then, like all things, it is over.

  "But I love you," Caleb says, his voice breaking, because in a perfect world, this should be all the excuse one needs.

  That night I dream I am walking into an ocean, the waves soaking the hem of my cotton nightgown. The water is cold, but not nearly as cold as it usually is in Maine, and the beach beneath is a smooth lip of sand. I keep walking, even when the water reaches my knees, even when it brushes my hips and my nightgown sticks to my body like a second skin. I keep walking, and the water comes up to my neck, my chin. By the time I go under I realize I am going to drown.

  At first I fight, trying to ration the air I have in my lungs. Then they start to burn, a circle of fire beneath my ribs. My wide eyes burst black, and my feet start to thrash, but I am getting nowhere. This is it, I think. Finally.

  With that realization I let my arms go still, and my legs go limp. I feel my body sinking and the water filling me, until I am curled on the sand at the base of the sea.

  The sun is a quivering yellow eye. I get to my feet, and to my great surprise, begin to walk with ease on the bottom of the ocean floor.

  Nathaniel doesn't move the hour I sit on his bed, watching him sleep. But when I touch his hair, unable to hold back any longer, he rolls over and blinks at me. "It's still dark," he whispers.

  "I know. It's not morning."

  I watch him trying to puzzle this out: What could have brought me, then, to wake him in the middle of the night? How am I supposed to explain to him that the next time I have the opportunity to do this, his body might reach the whole length of the bed? That by the time I come back, the boy I left behind will no longer exist?

  "Nathaniel," I say, with a shuddering breath, "I might be going away."

  He sits up. "You can't, Mommy." Smiling, he even finds a reason. "We just got back."

  "I know ... but this isn't my choice."

  Nathaniel pulls the covers up to his chest, suddenly looking very small. "What did I do this time?"

  With a sob I pull him onto my lap and bury my face against his hair. He rubs his nose against my neck, and it reminds me so much of him as an infant that I cannot breathe. I would trade everything, now, to have those minutes back, tucked into a miser's lockbox. Even the ordinary moments--driving in the car, cleaning up the playroom, cooking dinner with Nathaniel. They are no less miraculous simply because they are something we did as a matter of routine. It is not what you do with a child that brings you together ... it is the fact that you are lucky enough to do it at all.

  I draw away to look at his face. That bow of a mouth, the slope of his nose. His eyes, preserving memories like the amber they resemble. Keep them, I think. Watch over them for me.

  By now, I am crying hard. "I promise, it won't be forever. I promise that you can come see me. And I want you to know every minute of every day that I'm away from you ... I'm thinking of how long it'll be before I come back."

  Nathaniel wraps his arms around my neck and holds on for dear life. "I don't want you to go."

  "I know." I draw back, holding his wrists loosely.

  "I'll come with you."

  "I wish you could. But I need someone here to take care of your father."

  Nathaniel shakes his head. "But I'll miss you."

  "And I'll miss you," I say softly. "Hey, how about if we make a pact?"

  "What's that?"

  "A decision two people make together." I try for a smile. "Let's agree not to miss each other. Is that a deal?"

  Nathaniel looks at me for a long moment. "I don't think I can do it," he confesses.

  I pull him close again.
"Oh, Nathaniel," I whisper. "Me neither."

  Nathaniel is glued to my side the next morning when we walk into the courthouse. The reporters that I have almost become accustomed to seem like a cruel torture, their questions and their blinding video cameras a modern gauntlet I have to survive. These will be my Before and After pictures; DA-cum-convict. Print your headlines now, I think, since I am going to jail.

  As soon as I reach the barrier of the double doors, I hand Nathaniel to Caleb and make a dead run for the restroom, where I dry heave into a toilet and splash water on my face and wrists. "You can get through this," I say to the mirror. "You can at least end it with dignity."

  Taking a deep breath I push my way out the swinging door to where my family is waiting, and see Adrienne, the transsexual, wearing a red dress two sizes too small and a grin as large as Texas. "Nina!" she cries, and comes running to hug me. "Last place I ever thought I'd want to be is in a courtroom again, but honey, I'm here for you."

  "You're out?"

  "Since yesterday. Didn't know if I'd make it in time, but that jury deliberation's taking longer than my sex change operation."

  Suddenly Nathaniel has wormed his way between us, and is doing his best to climb me like a tree. I heft him into my arms. "Nathaniel, this is Adrienne."

  Her eyes light up. "I have heard so much about you."

  It is a toss-up as to who is more stunned by Adrienne's presence--Nathaniel or Caleb. But before I can offer any explanations, Fisher hurries toward us.

  I meet his gaze. "Do it," I say.

  Quentin finds Fisher waiting for him in the courtroom. "We have to speak to Judge Neal," he says quietly.

  "I'm not offering her a plea," Quentin answers.

  "And I'm not asking for one." He turns, heading for the judge's chambers without waiting to see if the prosecutor will follow.

  Ten minutes later, they are standing in front of Judge Neal, the angry heads of safari animals bearing witness. "Your Honor," Fisher begins, "we've been here so long; it's clear that the jury is going to hang. I've talked to my client ... and if Mr. Brown is willing, we'd like to submit this case to Your Honor and have you decide the facts and the verdict."

  Well, if Quentin was expecting anything it wasn't this. He looks at the defense attorney as if the man has lost his mind. Granted, nobody likes a mistrial, but to let the judge rule is to adhere, strictly, to the letter of the law--something far more beneficial to the prosecution, in this case, than the defense. Fisher Carrington has just handed Quentin a conviction on a silver platter.

  The judge stares at him. "Mr. Brown? What would the state like to do?"

  He clears his throat. "The state finds this perfectly acceptable, Your Honor."

  "Fine. I'm going to let the jury go then. I need an hour to review the evidence, and then I'll make my ruling." With a nod, the judge dismisses the two lawyers, and begins the process of deciding Nina Frost's future.

  Adrienne, it turns out, is a godsend. She gets Nathaniel out of my arms by making herself into a jungle gym when Caleb and I are wrung too dry to play. Nathaniel crawls over her back and then down the long slide of her shins. "If he's tiring you out," Caleb says, "just tell him to stop."

  "Oh, honey, I've been waiting my whole life for this." She flips Nathaniel upside down, so that he giggles.

  I am torn between watching them and joining in. My biggest fear is that if I let myself touch my son again, nothing they will do will be able to drag me away.

  When there is a knock at the playroom door, we all turn. Patrick stands uncomfortably at the threshold. I know what he wants, and I also know that he will not ask for it with my family here.

  To my surprise, Caleb takes the decision out of everyone's hands. He nods toward Patrick, and then to me. "Go on," he says.

  So Patrick and I find ourselves walking down twisted basement corridors, a foot of space separating us. We travel so far in silence that I realize I have no idea where we now are. "How could you?" he finally bursts out. "If you'd gone with another jury trial, at least, you'd have a shot at an acquittal."

  "And I would have dragged Nathaniel and Caleb and you and everyone else along through it again. Patrick, this has to stop. It has to be over. No matter what."

  He stops walking, leans against a heating duct. "I never really thought you'd go to jail."

  "There are a lot of places," I reply, "that I thought I'd never go." I smile faintly. "Will you bring me Chinese food every now and then?"

  "No." Patrick looks down at the floor between his shoes. "I won't be here, Nina."

  "You ... what?"

  "I'm moving. There are some job openings out in the Pacific Northwest I might take a look at." He takes a deep breath. "I always wanted to see what it was like out there. I just didn't want to do it without you."

  "Patrick--"

  With great tenderness, he kisses my forehead. "You will be fine," he murmurs. "You've done it before." He offers me a crooked smile to slip into my breast pocket. And then he walks down the hall, leaving me to find my own way back.

  The bathroom door at the base of the staircase flies open, and suddenly Quentin Brown is no more than four feet away from me. "Mrs. Frost," he sputters.

  "After all this, I would think you could call me Nina." It is an ethical violation for him to speak to me without Fisher present, and we both know it. Yet somehow, bending that rule doesn't seem quite so horrific, after all this. When he doesn't respond, I realize he doesn't feel the same way and try to step around him. "If you'll excuse me, my family's waiting in the playroom."

  "I have to admit," Quentin says as I am walking away, "I was surprised by your decision."

  I turn. "To let the judge rule?"

  "Yes. I don't know if I'd do the same thing, if I were a defendant."

  I shake my head. "Somehow, Quentin, I can't picture you as a defendant."

  "Could you picture me as a parent?"

  It surprises me. "No. I never heard that you had a family."

  "A boy. Sixteen." He stuffs his hands in his pockets. "I know, I know. You've done such a good job imagining me as a ruthless villain that it's hard to give me a vein of compassion."

  "Well." I shrug. "Maybe not a ruthless villain."

  "An asshole then?"

  "Your words, counselor," I reply, and we both grin.

  "Then again, people can surprise you all the time," he muses. "For example, a district attorney who commits murder. Or an assistant attorney general that drives past a defendant's home at night just to make sure she's okay."

  I snort. "If you drove by at all, it was to make sure I was still there."

  "Nina, didn't you ever wonder who in your office left you the lab report from the underwear?"

  My jaw drops open. "My son's name," Quentin says. "It's Gideon."

  Whistling, he nods to me, and jogs up the staircase.

  The courtroom is so quiet that I can hear Caleb breathing behind me. What he said the moment before we walked in to hear the judge's verdict echoes too, in the silence: I am proud of you.

  Judge Neal clears his throat and begins to speak. "The evidence in this case clearly shows that on October thirtieth, 2001, the defendant Nina Frost went out, purchased a handgun, concealed it, and brought it into a Biddeford district courtroom. The evidence also shows that she positioned herself near Father Szyszynski, and intentionally and knowingly shot him four times in the head, thereby causing his death. The evidence is also clear that at the time she did these things, Nina Frost was under the mistaken impression that Father Szyszynski had sexually molested her five-year-old son."

  I bow my head, each word a blow. "So what does the evidence not support?" the judge asks rhetorically. "Specifically, the defendant's contention that she was legally insane at the time of the shooting. Witnesses testified that she acted deliberately and methodically to exterminate the man who she thought had harmed her child. And at the time, the defendant was a trained, practicing assistant district attorney who knew very well that every person charged wi
th a crime--Father Szyszynski included--was innocent until proven guilty in a court of law. Basically, this court believes Nina Frost to be a prosecutor through and through ... so much so, that to break a law, she would have had to give the act careful consideration."

  He raises his head and pushes his glasses up on his nose. "And so I reject the defendant's insanity defense."

  A shuffling to my left, from Quentin Brown.

  "However--"

  Quentin stills.

  "--in this state there is another reason to justify the act of murder--namely, if a defendant was under the influence of a reasonable fear or anger brought about by reasonable provocation. As a prosecutor, Nina Frost didn't have reason to be fearful or angry the morning of October thirtieth ... yet as Nathaniel's mother, she did. Her son's attempt to identify the victim, the wild card of the DNA evidence, and the defendant's intimate knowledge of the treatment of a witness in the criminal justice system all add up, in this court's opinion, to reasonable provocation under the law."

  I have stopped breathing. This cannot be true.

  "Will the defendant please rise?"

  It is not until Fisher grabs my arm and hauls me to my feet that I remember the judge means me. "Nina Frost, I find you Not Guilty of Murder. I do find you Guilty of Manslaughter pursuant to 17-A M.R.S.A. Section 203 (1)(B). Does the defendant wish to waive a presentence report and be sentenced today?"

  "Yes, Your Honor," Fisher murmurs.

  The judge looks at me for the first time this morning. "I sentence you to twenty years in the Maine State Prison, with credit for the time you have already served." He pauses. "The remainder of the twenty years will be suspended, and you'll be on probation for that time. You need to check in with your probation officer before you leave court today, and then, Mrs. Frost, you are free to go."

  The courtroom erupts in a frenzy of flashbulbs and confusion. Fisher embraces me as I burst into tears, and Caleb leaps over the bar. "Nina?" he demands. "In English?"

  "It's ... good." I laugh up at him. "It's great, Caleb." The judge, in essence, has absolved me. I will never have to serve out my prison term, as long as I manage not to kill anyone again. Caleb grabs me and swings me around; over his shoulder I see Adrienne pump her fist in the air. Behind her is Patrick. He sits with his eyes closed, smiling. Even as I watch, they blink open to focus on me. Only you, Patrick mouths silently; words I will wonder about for years.