The Pact

by Jodi Picoult

  Chris looked down at their hands, linked over the textbooks, and accepted for the first time that--for whatever reason--he might fail, that this might really happen. "I would," he said, his heart breaking beneath the weight of the truth.

  THEY SAT IN THE DARK of the movie theater, holding hands. Whatever they'd gone to see--Chris couldn't even remember the title--was long finished. The credits had rolled, the other patrons had left. Around them one or two ushers swept empty popcorn containers out of the aisles, moving in a hushed rhythm and doing their best to ignore the couple still curled in the back of the theater.

  Sometimes he was certain that he'd come away a hero, and one day he and Emily would find this all very funny. And other times he believed that he would be only what he'd promised Emily: someone there to witness her, as she went.

  "I don't know what I'd do without you," Chris whispered.

  He could see Emily turn to him, her eyes shine in the dark. "You could do it with me," she said, and swallowed, the suggestion still bitter in her throat.

  Chris did not respond, purposely letting her feel sick to her stomach at the thought. He wondered silently, What makes you so sure we would still be together, after? How do you know it works like that?

  "Because," Emily said, as clearly as if she'd heard him. "I can't picture it any other way."

  ONE NIGHT HE WENT into the basement and took the key from his father's workbench. The gun cabinet was locked, as always, to keep out children. Not teenagers like Chris, who knew better.

  He opened the cabinet and took out the Colt, because he knew Emily well enough to be certain that the first thing she'd ask was to see the pistol. If he didn't bring it, she'd realize something was up, and stop trusting him before he had a chance to keep her from going through with it.

  He sat there, the weight of the gun cradled in his hands, remembering the acrid smell of Hoppe's Solvent #9 and the way his father's hands, gifted and precise, had rubbed the shaft and the barrel with a silicone cloth. Like Aladdin's lamp, Chris had once thought, expecting magic.

  He remembered the stories his father had told about the piece, about Eliot Ness and Al Capone, about speakeasies and secret raids and sloe gin fizzes. He told Chris that this gun had driven home justice.

  Then he remembered his first deer hunt, which had not been a clean kill. Chris and his father had tracked the animal into the woods, where it lay on its side taking great, heaving breaths. What do I do? Chris had asked, and his father had lifted his rifle and fired. Put it out of its misery, he said.

  Chris reached into the bottom of the gun cabinet and drew out the bullets for the .45. Emily was no fool; she'd ask to see these too. He closed his eyes and made himself imagine her lifting the tarnished silver barrel to her forehead; made himself picture his own hand coming up and drawing the gun away from her head, if it came down to that.

  It was selfish, but it was simple: He could not let Emily kill herself. When you'd been with someone your whole life, you could not imagine living in a world that did not have her in it.

  He would stop her. He would.

  And he did not let himself wonder why he'd slipped two bullets into his pocket, instead of just the one.

  NOW

  May 1998

  Gus sat on the edge of her bed and smoothed her pantyhose up her legs. Next, she thought woodenly, clothes. She stepped into the closet to retrieve a simple navy dress and a pair of matching low-heeled pumps. She would wear her pearls, too--elegant and understated.

  She was not allowed in the courtroom. Witnesses were sequestered until they gave their testimony. In all likelihood, she would not be called to the stand today, maybe not even tomorrow. She was dressing up on the off chance that she might see Chris, even in passing.

  Gus heard the water running in the bathroom as James shaved. It was as if they were going to a dinner party, or a conference with one of the children's teachers. Except they weren't.

  And so James emerged from the bathroom to find Gus sitting on the bed in her bra and pantyhose, her eyes closed and her body bent, taking small shallow breaths as if she'd been running forever.

  MELANIE AND MICHAEL WALKED OUT of the house together. Her feet sank into the soft earth, mucking up her heels. She opened the door of her car, and without saying a word, got inside.

  Michael got into his own truck. He followed his wife all the way down Wood Hollow Road, staring at the rear end of her car. There were two high brake lights on each side of the wide back window, and a low strip of lights across the bumper of the car as well. Every time Melanie stepped on the brake, they all flashed, making it seem as if the car were smiling.

  BARRIE DELANEY'S CAT KNOCKED OVER her cup of coffee the minute she was scheduled to leave for the courthouse. "Shit, shit, shit," she muttered, pushing the yowling cat away from the mess and soaking it up with a dishtowel. It was not enough, the coffee was still running in rivulets beneath the kitchen table. Barrie glanced quickly at the sink, deciding that she did not have time to clean up.

  It was not until days later that she realized coffee would stain her white vinyl flooring, that for the next ten years she'd come into her kitchen and think about Christopher Harte.

  JORDAN SET HIS BRIEFCASE DOWN on the kitchen counter. Then he spun around toward Thomas, one hand flattening his tie. "So?"

  Thomas whistled. "Looking good," he said.

  "Good enough to win?"

  "Good enough to kick some ass," his son crowed.

  Jordan grinned and slapped Thomas on the back. "Watch your mouth," he said half-heartedly, and lifted the box of Cocoa Krispies, his face falling. "Oh, Thomas. You didn't." His brows drew together as he peered into the dark, empty recesses of the cereal box.

  Thomas, in the middle of a mouthful, let his jaw drop open. "Isn't there some left? I swear, Dad, I thought there was."

  Every morning before a trial, Jordan had Cocoa Krispies. It was a sorry superstition, one with no more meat to it than a baseball pitcher who didn't shave for consecutive wins, or a cardsharp with a rabbit's foot sewn into the lining of his jacket. But it was his superstition, dammit, and it worked. Eat the Krispies, win the trial.

  Thomas squirmed under his father's glare. "I could run out and get some more," he suggested.

  Jordan snorted. "With what vehicle?"

  "My bike."

  "So you'll be back in time for ... oh, maybe lunch." Jordan shook his head. "I just wish," he said, trying to keep his temper in check, "that sometimes you'd think before you acted."

  Thomas stared into his bowl. "I could go next door and see if Mrs. Higgins has some."

  Mrs. Higgins was seventy-five if she was a day. Jordan highly doubted that Cocoa Krispies was a pantry staple for her. "Forget it," he said irritably, reaching into the refrigerator for an English muffin. "It's too late."

  IT FELT WEIRD, being in a suit. An officer had brought Chris the clothes with his breakfast; the jacket and slacks he hadn't seen since his arraignment seven months before. He remembered when he and Em and his mother had gone shopping for the suit. The store had smelled of money and worsted wool. He'd stood on the inside of the dressing room booth, hopping around to get the pants on, while Em and his mom chattered about ties, their voices coming through the door like the pipe of finches.

  "Harte," an officer said, standing at the door of the cell. "Time to go."

  He walked through the pod in his suit, sweat beading at his temples, aware of the conspicuous silence from the occupants of other cells. It hit too close to home, was all. You could not watch someone march off to trial without thinking what might happen to you.

  When the heavy door was locked behind him again, the officer led him to a deputy sheriff, one of several stationed at the Grafton County Courthouse. "Big day," he said, cuffing Chris and then attaching the links to a waist chain. He waited for the officer to unlock the jail's main door and led Chris out of the prison, one hand firmly on his upper arm.

  It was the first time in seven months that Chris had stood outside, fe
nced in only by the mountains and the lazy strip of the Connecticut River. The farm beside the jail reeked of manure. He took a deep breath and lifted his face, the sun soaking his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, his knees buckling under the tentative weight of freedom.

  "Let's go," the deputy said impatiently, yanking him toward the courthouse.

  THE COURTROOM WAS CONSPICUOUSLY EMPTY, most of the players in the drama having been pulled aside as future witnesses. James sat stiffly in the row of seats just behind the defense table. Jordan, who had arrived a few minutes earlier, was talking to a colleague, his foot braced up on a chair. He stopped speaking when a side door opened, and James followed his gaze to see Chris being brought inside.

  A bailiff led Chris to the defense table. James felt his throat close at the sight of his son, and before he could remember himself he reached over the divider and tried to touch Chris's arm.

  Chris was directly in front of James, but a foot out of reach.

  They built it this way, James thought, on purpose.

  "I don't think so," Jordan was yelling, pointing to the handcuffs, which were horrible but had been expected. In fact Jordan had been the one to mention it to the Hartes, so James didn't see why he was so surprised. He gesticulated wildly, striding with the prosecutor toward the judge's chambers.

  Chris turned around in his chair. "Dad," he said.

  James reached out his hand again. For the first time in his life he was completely oblivious to an entire room of people looking on. He straddled and swung his legs over the divider, sitting down in the chair Jordan had vacated. Then he embraced his son, his body enveloping Chris's, so that the reporters and onlookers who poured into the courtroom to ogle the defendant could not even see that he was fettered.

  IN CHAMBERS, JORDAN EXPLODED. "For God's sake, Your Honor," he said. "While we're at it, why don't I put him in dreadlocks and have him grow a beard and--hell, let's put a skinhead tattoo on his forehead so the jury really forms a bias before we've even started the trial!"

  Barrie rolled her eyes. "Your Honor, it's perfectly within precedent to have an alleged murderer brought to trial in handcuffs."

  Jordan rounded on her. "What do you think he's going to do here? Start hammering someone to death with a Bic pen?" He turned to the judge. "The only reason for the shackles, as we all know, is to make everyone think he's dangerous."

  "He is dangerous," Barrie pointed out in an undertone. "He killed a person."

  "Save it for the jury," Jordan muttered beneath his breath.

  "Jesus God," Puckett said, spitting an almond shell into his hand. "Is this what I have to look forward to?" His lids drifted shut as he rubbed his temples. "It may be precedent, Ms. Delaney, but I'm going to go out on a limb and assume that Chris Harte isn't planning to go off on a murderous rampage. The defendant can remain uncuffed for the duration of the trial."

  "Thank you, Your Honor," Jordan said.

  Barrie turned, bumping shoulders with Jordan on her way out the door. "Must be a pretty feeble defense," she whispered, "if you're already begging favors from the bench."

  JORDAN SMILED CONFIDENTLY AT CHRIS, who was still rubbing his wrists. "This," he said, nodding down at Chris's newly freed state, "is a terrific sign."

  Chris didn't really see why, since even an honest-to-God murderer would have to be a total idiot to attack someone in the middle of a court of law. He knew and Jordan knew--hell, everybody knew--that the only reason he'd been brought in, cuffed, was to strip him of his dignity.

  "Don't look at the prosecutor," Jordan continued. "She's going to say some awful things--you're allowed to do that in an opening argument. Ignore her."

  "Ignore her," Chris repeated dutifully, and then some skinny guy with an Adam's apple as big as an egg told everyone to rise. "The Honorable Leslie F. Puckett presiding," he announced, and a man in a flowing robe entered from a side door, his teeth cracking audibly against something.

  "Be seated," the judge said, opening a file. He plucked a nut out of a squat, square jar in front of him, and sucked it through his lips, like krill being drawn through a whale's baleen. "The prosecution," he said, "may begin."

  BARRIE DELANEY STOOD UP and faced the jury. "Ladies and gentlemen," she said. "My name is Barrie Delaney, and I'm here to represent the State of New Hampshire. I want to thank each one of you for taking on a very important job. The twelve of you are here to make sure that justice is done in this courtroom. And in this case, justice means that you will find that man"--she raised a finger and pointed--"Christopher Harte, guilty of murder.

  "Yes, murder. It does sound shocking, and it's probably even more shocking to you that I'm pointing at a good-looking young man. I bet you're even thinking, 'He doesn't look like a murderer.'" She turned to examine Chris with the other members of the jury. "He looks like ... well, a prep-school kid. He doesn't fit the Hollywood image of a murderer. But ladies and gentlemen, this isn't Hollywood. This is real life, and in real life, Christopher Harte killed Emily Gold. Before this trial is over, you will know the defendant for what he really is, beneath that fancy jacket and that nice blue tie--a cold-blooded murderer."

  She flicked a glance toward Jordan. "The defense is going to try to play on your emotions, and tell you that this was a botched double suicide. That's not what happened. Let me tell you what did." She turned around, her hands spread on the rail of the jury box, directing her attention at an elderly blue-haired woman in a flowered cotton dress. "On the night of November seventh, at six P.M., Christopher Harte went into the locked gun chest in the basement of his house and took out a Colt .45 revolver. He put it in his coat pocket and picked up his girlfriend, Emily. He took her to the carousel on Tidewater Road. The defendant also brought liquor. He and Emily drank, had sex, and then, while the defendant still had Emily in his arms, he took out the gun. After a brief struggle, Christopher Harte put the barrel of that revolver up to Emily's right temple and shot her."

  She paused, letting that sink in. "Ladies and gentlemen, you'll hear from Detective Anne-Marie Marrone. She will tell you that we have the gun, with the defendant's fingerprints all over it. You'll hear the county medical examiner say that the angle of the wound would make it virtually impossible for Emily to have pulled the trigger herself. You'll hear from a jeweler in town that Emily had bought a five-hundred-dollar watch to give to Chris for his birthday, which was the month after she died. And both a friend of Emily's and her own mother will tell you that Emily was not suicidal.

  "You'll also hear Christopher Harte's motive: Why on earth he would have shot his girlfriend. You see, ladies and gentlemen, Emily was eleven weeks pregnant." At the quiet gasp of a juror, Barrie hid a smile. "This young man had big plans for his future, and didn't need a baby or a high-school sweetheart ruining them, so he decided to--quite literally--get rid of the problem."

  She stepped back from the jury box. "The defendant is charged with murder in the first degree. A person is guilty of first-degree murder when he purposely causes the death of another, and when his actions toward that end are premeditated and deliberate. Did Christopher Harte kill Emily Gold on purpose? Absolutely. Were his actions that night premeditated and deliberate? Absolutely." She turned on her heel, her cold green eyes pinning Chris's. "In the Bible, ladies and gentlemen, the Devil comes in many disguises. Don't let his latest one fool you."

  "NICE SPEECH. Ms. Delaney did a fine job, didn't she?" Jordan stood and sauntered toward the jury. "Unfortunately, she was right about only one thing: the fact that Emily Gold ... is dead." He spread his hands. "That is a tragedy. And I'm here to make sure that you don't allow another tragedy to occur--that you don't let this young man get put away for a crime he did not commit.

  "Imagine for a moment the terrible pain of losing a loved one. It's happened to you," Jordan said, looking at the same blue-haired lady Delaney had singled out. "And you," he said to a dairy farmer, with a face so creased it seemed again smooth. "We've all lost someone. And recently, Chris did too. Think of how you felt when it
happened to you--the pain, the rawness of it--and then imagine the horror of being charged with that same person's murder.

  "The State says that Christopher Harte committed murder, but that's not what happened. He almost committed suicide. He watched his girlfriend do it, then he fainted before he could do it himself.

  "All of the evidence the State was talking about is consistent with a double suicide. I'm not going to bore you with contradictions. I'm just going to ask you, now, to listen very carefully to all the witnesses, and look very carefully at all the evidence ... because everything the State is using as proof of murder has been twisted.

  "Ladies and gentlemen--in order to find Chris Harte guilty of murder, you have to be convinced beyond a reasonable doubt that the scene Ms. Delaney painted for you was the real one. But that's all the State has--a painted scene." He walked back to the defense table and placed his hand on his client's shoulder. "When this trial is finished, you'll have more than a reasonable doubt--and you'll know that this isn't about murder. Emily Gold wanted to kill herself, and Chris decided to join her. He loved Emily so much that life wasn't worth living without her." Jordan shook his head and turned toward Chris. "That's not a crime, ladies and gentlemen. That's a tragedy."

  "THE PROSECUTION CALLS Detective Anne-Marie Marrone to the stand."

  There was a slight buzz as the first witness was sworn in. She settled down with the ease of someone who's played a particular house before, her gaze level on the jury.

  Anne-Marie Marrone was wearing a simple black suit; her hair was twisted up in a knot at the back of her head. With the exception of the holster peeking out from beneath her jacket, it was easy to forget she was a policewoman.

  Barrie Delaney crossed in front of the witness stand. "Please state your name and address for the court." The detective complied, and Barrie nodded. "Could you tell us in what capacity you're employed?"

  "I'm a detective-sergeant with the Bainbridge police."