by Jodi Picoult
The prosecutor's motions, seeking to exclude two of his expert witnesses and the pro-choice English essay Selena had found, had been denied.
His own motion of suppression to bar the interview Detective Marrone had done at the hospital had been granted, on the grounds that Chris Harte had not felt he was free to leave the interview, and thus had been formally questioned without being Mirandized.
It was a small victory, but it made him smile. Jordan shuffled the letter to the back of the pile, walked back into his office, and closed the door.
WHEN CHRIS SAW HIS FATHER standing stiffly behind the metal bridge chair down in the visitor's area, he froze. He had told his mother that he wanted James to come, but he hadn't really expected his wish to be granted. After all, when Chris had banned him from visiting months before, they all knew he was just taking the blame for something James would have done, anyway.
"Chris," his father said, holding out a hand.
"Dad." They shook, and Chris was momentarily shocked by the heat of his father's skin. He remembered, in a quick flash, that his father's palms had always seemed reassuringly warm, on his shoulders in a duck blind, or bracing his arms as he taught him to shoot. "Thank you for coming."
James nodded. "Thank you for having me," he said formally.
"Did Mom come with you?"
"No," James said. "I understood that you wanted to see me by myself."
Chris had never said that, but that was how his mother had interpreted it. And probably, it wasn't a bad idea. "Was there something in particular you wanted to ask me?" James said.
Chris nodded. He thought of many things at once: If I go to prison, will you help Mom get on with her life? If I ask you, will you tell me to my face that I've hurt you more than you ever thought possible? But instead his mouth opened, rolling over a sentence that surprised Chris as much as it did James. "Dad," he said, "in your whole life, haven't you ever done anything wrong?"
James covered his startled laughter with a cough. "Well, sure," he said. "I failed biology the first term of college. I shoplifted a pack of gum when I was little. And I crashed my father's car up after a fraternity party." He chuckled, crossing his legs. "I just never came close to murder."
Chris stared at him. "Neither did I," he said softly.
James's face went pale. "I didn't mean ... that is ... " Finally, he shook his head. "I don't blame you for what happened."
"But do you believe me?"
James met his son's gaze. "It is very hard to believe you," he said, "when I'm trying so hard to pretend it never happened."
"It did happen," Chris said, his voice choked. "Emily's dead. And I'm stuck in this stinking jail, and I can't change what's already been done."
"Neither can I." James clasped his hands between his knees. "You have to understand--I grew up being told by my parents that the best way to get out of a sticky situation was to assume it didn't exist," he said. "Let the rumors fly ... if the family isn't bothered, why should anyone else be?"
Chris smiled slightly. "Making believe I'm in a swanky hotel doesn't make the food taste any better here, or the cells any bigger."
"Well," James said, his voice softer. "There's nothing that says you can't learn from your own children, too." He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "As a matter of fact, now that you've got me thinking, there was one thing I've done in my life that was really awful."
Chris leaned forward, intrigued. "What was it?"
James smiled with so much of his heart that Chris had to look away. "I stayed away from here," he said, "until now."
STEVE'S MURDER TRIAL HAD LASTED four days. His lawyer was a public defender, since neither he nor his parents could afford someone more glitzy. And although he didn't talk to Chris about his case, Chris knew that he grew more and more nervous as the close of the trial drew near.
The night before the jury was supposed to return a verdict, Chris woke to the sound of a slight scratching. He rolled over in his bunk to find Steve rubbing a razor blade over the edge of the toilet.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Chris whispered.
Steve looked up. "I'm going to prison," he said, his voice heavy.
"You're already in prison," Chris said.
Steve shook his head. "This is a country club compared to the State Pen. Do you know what they do there to guys serving time for killing kids? Do you?"
Chris smiled a little. "Make you the company whore?"
"You think it's so frigging funny? Because you could be in the same goddamned boat three months from now." Steve was breathing harshly, trying not to cry. "Sometimes they just beat you up, and the guards look away 'cause they think you've got it coming. Sometimes they go so far as to kill you." He picked up the silver sliver of razor, a gleam in the half light of the cell. "I thought I'd save them the trouble," Steve said.
Still muzzy with sleep, it took Chris a moment to understand what Steve was saying. "You can't do that," he said.
"Chris," Steve murmured, "it's about the only thing I can do."
Chris suddenly remembered Emily, trying to explain to him how she felt. I can see myself now, she said. And I can see what I want to be, ten years from now. But I don't understand how I'm going to get from here to there. Chris watched Steve lift a shaking hand, the blade of the razor trembling like a flame. And he jumped off his bunk and started pounding at the bars of the cell, screaming to attract the attention of an officer and do for this friend what he had not done for Emily.
RUMORS FLEW THROUGH A JAIL, pervasive as gnats and just as difficult to ignore. By breakfast the next day everyone knew that Steve had been taken to the suicide cell down in maximum, where he was monitored by camera in the control room. By lunch, he was being led away by the sheriff, to the courthouse to hear the jury's decision.
At a little after three-thirty, one of the officers came into Chris's cell and started packing up Steve's things. Chris set down the book he was reading. "Is the trial over?" he asked.
"Yup. Guilty. Sentenced to life in prison."
Chris watched the officer pick up the broken shards of the plastic razor, the one Steve had pried apart for its blade. He pulled his pillow over his head, sobbing as he had not since the day he'd arrived at the jail. And he did not allow himself to ask whether he was crying for Steve or for himself; for what he had done, or for what was certain to happen.
AT FIRST, BARRIE DELANEY had called Melanie often, giving her updates on evidence that had dribbled in from the ME's office, or the forensics lab. Then the telephone calls had been made from Melanie's end, periodically, just to keep Emily on Ms. Delaney's mind. Now, Melanie called maybe once a month, not wanting to take from the prosecutor any amount of precious time that would be better served preparing for the trial.
So Melanie was rather surprised when Barrie Delaney tracked her all the way to the library to talk to her.
She picked up the phone, certain that the other librarian had gotten the caller's name wrong, only to hear the prosecutor's clear, clipped voice.
"Hi," Melanie said. "How is everything?"
"I should be asking you that," Barrie said. "Actually, everything is fine."
"Have they changed the date of the trial?"
"Oh, no. Still set for May." She sighed into the phone. "You see, Mrs. Gold, I was wondering if you might be able to help me with a bit of research."
"Anything," Melanie assured her. "What do you need?"
"It's your husband. He's agreed to testify for the defense."
Melanie was silent so long that the prosecutor began calling her name. "I'm still here," she said faintly, remembering Gus at the cemetery, certain she'd put Michael up to this. She felt her head start to pound. "What can I do?"
"Ideally, you can get him to back down," Barrie said. "And if he refuses, maybe you can find out what he's going to say that's so useful to the defense."
By now, Melanie's head was bowed, her forehead grazing the reference desk. "I see," she said, although she did not. "And how do I do this?"
THE FIRST THING MICHAEL NOTICED when he entered the house, sweaty and tired and reeking of sheep dip, was that the stereo was on. After months of prolonged silence, music seemed sacreligious, and he had the absurd urge to turn it off. But then he came around the corner of the kitchen and found Melanie chopping vegetables, the jewel tones of the peppers dotting the countertop like confetti. "Hi," she said brightly, so much like the woman she'd been a year ago that Michael started. "You hungry?"
"Famished," he said, his mouth dry. He heard the swell of a horn on the CD, and resisted the desire to reach out his hand and touch Melanie to make sure she was really there.
"Go clean up," she said. "I've got a nice lamb ragout cooking."
He walked up to the bathroom like an automaton, his head spinning. This was what he had heard about grief, after all--it could change a person drastically, then, one day, they'd be all right. It had certainly been that way for him. Maybe it was Melanie's turn to come back to life.
As he soaped himself in the shower and lathered his hair with shampoo, he kept envisioning Melanie as he'd seen her in the kitchen, her back to him, the curve of her spine graceful beneath her turtleneck, the highlights in her hair winking gold and roan and russet in the afternoon sun.
He came out in a towel, only to find Melanie sitting on the bed with two steaming plates and two glasses of red wine.
She was wearing a green silk robe that he remembered from a second honeymoon a million years ago, its sash slipping open. "I thought you might not want to wait," she said.
He swallowed. "For what?" he asked.
Melanie smiled. "The ragout." She stood up, the colorful delicacy on the plates jiggling with the movement of the mattress, and lifted a glass of wine. "Want some?" When Michael nodded, she took a sip, and then leaned up to kiss him, letting the wine run over his lips and into his throat.
He thought he was going to come, right then and there.
It had been months since he'd made love with Melanie, as long as his daughter had been dead. He would have jumped at the invitation to share a bed with her ... but this was not Melanie. In all the years they had been married, Melanie had never been one to initiate sex. He thought of her dribbling wine into his mouth, felt himself grow even harder, and then wondered what book she'd stolen that from.
Before he could stop himself, he laughed.
Melanie's eyes flickered; someone who did not know her as well as Michael might have missed the indecision that widened her pupils for that fraction of a second. To her credit--and his shock--she put the glass of wine down, reached for the back of his head, and tugged him down for a kiss.
He felt the robe open, her nipples peaked against his chest. He felt her tongue curl into his mouth and her fingers stroke the nape of his neck. And then he felt her other hand slide between them, to cup his testicles.
She had him by the balls.
Suddenly he understood why Melanie was cooking ragout, wearing silk, making love to him. She had not changed overnight. She only wanted something.
He lifted his head and drew back. Melanie made a sharp, tiny sound, and opened her eyes. "What's the matter?" she asked.
"How about," Michael murmured, "you tell me."
He saw her looking at him, felt her surprise as his penis grew flaccid in her grip. She tightened her grasp almost cruelly and then let him go, jerking the lapels of her robe closed. "You're going to be a defense witness," she hissed. "Your own daughter's dead, and you're going to stick up for her killer."
"That's what this is about?" Michael said, incredulous. "Did you think if you fucked me you could change my mind?"
"I don't know!" Melanie cried, her hands buried in her hair. "I thought that maybe you wouldn't do it. That you'd owe it to me."
Michael blinked at her, stunned that in a marriage which had lasted twenty years, she could even think of using sex as a down payment, instead of a gift. Wanting to hurt Melanie as badly as she had hurt him, Michael schooled his face into a careful blank. "You flatter yourself," he said, and walked out of the room.
He was naked, but that didn't matter. He stalked across the house and up the connecting staircase to the offices of his veterinary practice. There he dressed in the scrubs he wore sometimes for surgeries, and sat down at his desk. He could hear the quiet clatter of Melanie in the kitchen.
His hands were shaking as he picked up the phone and dialed.
GUS WALKED INTO THE Happy Family restaurant and immediately strode toward the booth in the back that they all used to frequent on Friday nights. Michael was sitting there in a pair of green scrubs, drinking what looked to be straight vodka. "Michael," she said, and he lifted his head.
She had seen that look before, but she couldn't quite place it. The vague set of the eyes, the small parenthetic downturns at the edges of the mouth. It took her a moment to recognize it as despair, an expression she'd seen on Chris's face before he remembered to pull his mask of indifference into place.
"You came," Michael said.
"I said I would."
He had called her at home, risky to begin with, and begged her to meet him right away. Trying to pick a familiar public venue that wouldn't be too busy this time of day, she suggested the Chinese restaurant. It was only as she was driving there, having lied to James and Kate, that she realized how crowded it would be with memories.
"It's Melanie," Michael said, and Gus's eyes widened.
"She's all right?"
"I don't know. I guess that depends on your frame of reference," he said. He told Gus what had happened.
By the time he finished, Gus's face was pink. She remembered, not so long ago, laughing with Melanie over coffee, discussing width versus length and other abstractions about sex that seemed too close for comfort right now. "Well," she said, clearing her throat, "you knew she was going to find out if you testified."
"Yeah. I don't think that's what upset me, really." He looked up at Gus, his eyes clouded. "It's just that this very horrible thing has happened to the two of us, you see? And I guess I always figured that if it came to this, we'd band together. Ride out the storm." He stared down at the place mat, festively decorated with a Chinese calendar wheel: the year of the rat, of the ox, of the horse. "Do you know what it's like to give your whole self to a person, and your whole heart to boot, until you've got nothing left to give--and then realize that it still isn't what they need?"
"Yes," Gus said simply. "I do know." She reached across the table and clasped both Michael's hands, giving him strength. And they thought separately of Melanie, and of James, and of how a stream of difference between two people might, overnight, turn into a canyon.
They were still holding hands when the waiter came over to take their order. "Missus! Mister!" he crowed, a wide smile splitting his face as Gus and Michael jumped apart. "It be many time since you be here to eat," he said, his voice a pidgin singsong. "When are coming the other couple?"
Gus stared at the waiter, openmouthed. It was Michael who realized the mistake that had been made. "Oh ... no," he said, smiling. "We're not married. We are, that is, but not to each other."
Gus nodded. "The other two, the ones who aren't here--" she said, and then broke off as the waiter smiled beatifically at them, unwilling or unable to understand.
Michael rested his palm on the menu. "Chicken and broccoli," he said. "And more vodka."
In the awkward silence that followed the waiter's disappearance to the kitchen, Gus slid her hands under the table, still tingling with Michael's touch. Michael tapped his chopsticks against the edge of the vodka glass. "He thought that you and I were--"
"Yes," Gus said. "Funny." But she was staring down at her place mat, at the odd Chinese calendar, and wondering if the waiter was not the only one who had thought that spouses were interchangeable. It was a logical mistake, after all; anyone who'd seen the Hartes and the Golds here for years, and the rapport between the four of them, could have c
ome to the same conclusion.
Gus peeked at Michael over the edge of her teacup, considering his thick silver hair, his capable, square hands, his heart. She had come to Michael tonight because he'd needed her. It felt perfectly natural--after all, he was almost a member of the family.
Which was, in itself, a little horrifying.
And incestuous.
The heavy china cup clanked onto the table as it slipped out of Gus's hand. Both she and Michael had felt the odd, simultaneous ease and discomfort of this attraction. But they were old enough to move away from each other, when reality--in the form of a Chinese waiter--intruded. It might not be as simple, for someone younger.
Who was to say that Emily hadn't felt it, too, blithely pushed into a romance with a boy who might as well have been her brother?
Pregnant with his child?
Gus closed her eyes and offered up a quick prayer, suddenly realizing what no one else had been able to for many months--why the bright, lively, intelligent Emily Gold might have been confused enough to take her own life.
THEN
October 1997
The first time Emily told Chris she wanted to kill herself, Chris laughed.
The second time, he pretended he didn't hear.
The third time, he listened.
They had been driving home from a late movie, and Emily had fallen asleep. She was doing that a lot these days, Chris realized--nodding off in the middle of the evening, sleeping so late in the morning Chris had to wake her up before driving her to school, once even dozing off in class. Her head was balanced lightly on his shoulder as he drove, her body canted sideways over the stick shift between the bucket seats. Chris kept his left hand on the wheel, his right bent at a strange angle to cradle Emily's head and keep it from bobbing all over the place.
He needed both hands to get off the highway, and he let go of Emily only to have her slip off his shoulder and settle in his lap, her ear pressed against the ring of his belt, her breasts nestled against the gear shift, her nose an inch from the steering wheel. Her head was heavy and warm, and as he drove through the silent streets of Bainbridge he rested his hand on it, brushing her hair back from her face. He turned into her driveway and cut the motor and the lights, watching her sleep.
