by Jodi Picoult
"I was her best girlfriend," Heather admitted. "But Chris knew her better than anyone else."
"Did you see Chris and Emily together?"
"Yes."
"What was their relationship like?"
Heather's eyes clouded. "I used to think it was really romantic," she said. "I mean, they'd been together forever, and it was sometimes like they couldn't hear anything but each other's voices or see anything but each other's faces." She bit her lip. "I used to think that Emily had what all of us wanted."
Jordan nodded gravely. "And Heather, based on the relationship you saw between Chris and Emily, can you picture him ever hurting her?"
"Objection," Barrie called.
"Overruled."
At Jordan's nod, Heather looked directly at Chris, her eyes wide and liquid. "No," she whispered. "I can't."
MELANIE GOLD WAS WEARING BLACK. On the witness stand, with her hair pulled back severely and the padded shoulders of her suit jacket stretched wide, she looked like an implacable mother superior, or maybe even an archangel. "Mrs. Gold," Barrie said, laying a hand over her witness's. "Thank you for being here. I'm so sorry to put you through this formality, but I need a few facts for the record. Could you state your name?"
"Melanie Gold."
"What was your relationship to the victim?"
Melanie stared directly at the jury. "I was her mother," she said softly.
"Can you tell us about your relationship with your daughter?"
Melanie nodded. "We spent a lot of time together." She began to talk, her words brush strokes, bringing Emily back to life with the same artistic elegance that Emily had possessed. She would spend time with me after school, when I was at the library working. We'd go shopping together on the weekends. She knew she could turn to me.
"What sorts of things did Emily talk to you about?"
Melanie started, and directed her attention back to the prosecutor. "We'd been discussing college a lot. She was getting ready to apply."
"What were her feelings about going to college?"
"She was very excited," Melanie said. "She was a wonderful student, and an even better artist. As a matter of fact, she was applying at the Sorbonne."
"Wow," Barrie said, "that's impressive."
"So was Emily," Melanie said.
"When did you first find out that something had happened to Emily?"
Melanie wilted in the chair. "We were called in the middle of the night and told to come down to the hospital right away. All we knew was that Emily had gone on a date with Chris. By the time we got there, Emily had died."
"What were you told about the death?"
"Not very much. My husband went in to identify ... Emily. I ... " She looked up at the jury. "I couldn't. And then Michael came back out and told me that she'd been shot in the head."
"What did you think, Mrs. Gold?" Barrie asked gently.
"I thought, Oh, my God--who did this to my baby?"
The stillness that comes on the heels of true grief settled over the courtroom, so that the jury could hear the scratch of Jordan's pen, the tick of the bailiff's watch, Chris's labored breathing. "Did you ever think for a moment, Mrs. Gold, that it might have been a suicide?"
"No," Melanie said, her voice firm. "My daughter was not suicidal."
"How do you know?"
"How wouldn't I know? I'm her mother. She wasn't sad; she wasn't depressed; she wasn't crying. She was the same wonderful young woman we'd always known. And she'd never used a gun in her life; she didn't know anything about them. Why would she have tried to shoot herself with one?"
"Did a jeweler start calling you after Emily's death?"
"Yes," Melanie said. "At first I didn't know who it was. The woman just kept asking for Emily, and it seemed like a bad joke. But then she finally told me about a watch that Emily had bought for Chris and I went down to pick it up. It was a five-hundred-dollar watch--fifty dollars more than she'd made the entire summer working at a camp. Emily knew we would have been very upset to find out that she'd spent that amount of money on a surprise birthday gift for Chris; it was far too extravagant, and we would have made her return it." She took a deep breath, then continued. "After I went to the jeweler's, I took that watch home and I realized it was Emily's way of telling me to look more closely at what happened." She stared at the jury. "Why would Emily have bought a watch to give to Chris at the end of November, if she knew they were going to kill themselves before then?"
Barrie walked toward the defense table. "As you know, Mrs. Gold, the only other person at the carousel that night was Christopher Harte."
Melanie's eyes flicked over him. "I know."
"Do you know the defendant well?"
"Yes," Melanie said. "Chris and Emily grew up together. We've lived next door to his family for eighteen years." Her voice thickened, and she glanced away. "He was always welcome in our house. He was like a son to us."
"And you know that he's here because he's charged with murder? The murder of your daughter?"
"Yes."
"Do you believe that Chris could have been violent toward your daughter?"
"Objection," Jordan said. "This witness is biased."
"Biased!" Barrie sputtered. "The woman's child is dead and buried. She can have any bias she pleases."
Puckett rubbed his temples. "The prosecution has the right to put on any witness it wishes. We'll give Mrs. Gold the benefit of the doubt."
Barrie turned back toward Melanie. "Do you believe," she repeated, "that Chris could have been violent toward your daughter?"
Melanie cleared her throat. "I think he killed her."
"Objection!" Jordan yelled.
"Overruled."
"You think he killed her," Barrie restated, letting Melanie's words settle, a gauntlet thrown. "Why?"
For a moment, Melanie stared at Chris. "Because my daughter was pregnant," she spat out, forgetting the prosecutor's warning to stay calm. "Chris was going off to college. He didn't want his career and his education and his swimming future ruined by some baby and a hometown girl." Melanie saw Chris startle, then begin to shake. "Chris was the one who knew about guns," she said tightly. "His father had his own arsenal. They were hunting all the time." She pinned Chris with her gaze, her words solely for him. "You put two bullets in the gun."
Jordan leaped to his feet. "Objection!"
"You thought the whole thing out. But you couldn't keep her from bruising when she fought you--"
"Objection, Your Honor! This is inappropriate!"
Melanie stared at Chris, unstoppable. "You couldn't guarantee the angle of the bullet. And you couldn't do a thing about the watch, because you didn't even know about it." Her hands flexed on the railing of the witness stand, knuckles white.
"Mrs. Gold," the judge interrupted.
"You killed her," Melanie shouted. "You killed my baby, and you killed your baby."
"Mrs. Gold, you will cease immediately!" Puckett yelled, banging his gavel. "Ms. Delaney, control your client!"
The tips of Chris's ears were flame red. He shrank down beside Jordan. "Your witness," Barrie said, offering up the sobbing, heartsick woman.
"Your Honor," Jordan said tightly. "Perhaps we should take a short recess."
Puckett glared at the prosecutor. "Perhaps we should," he said.
WHEN MELANIE TOOK THE STAND AGAIN, her eyes were red and high flags of color rose on her cheekbones, but for all intents and purposes she was again composed. "It sounds like Emily was quite a daughter, Mrs. Gold," Jordan said, still seated at the defense table, as casual as if he'd invited the woman over for lunch. "Talented, beautiful, and she confided in you. What else could you possibly want in a child?"
"Life," Melanie said coldly.
Momentarily flustered--Jordan hadn't expected her to be quite so sharp--he mentally took a step back. "How many hours a week did you spend with Emily, Mrs. Gold?"
"Well, I work three days a week, and Emily was in school."
"So ... ?"
"I'd say two hours at night, on weeknights. Maybe more on weekends."
"How much time did she spend with Chris?"
"Quite a lot."
"Could you be more specific? More than two hours at night, and some extra on weekends?"
"Yes."
"So she spent more time in Chris's company than in yours."
"Yes."
"I see. Did Emily have high expectations for her future?"
Surprised at the change of topic, Melanie nodded. "Very."
"You must have been very supportive parents."
"We were. We certainly praised academic success and helped her further her interest in art."
"Would you say it was important to Emily to meet your expectations?"
"I think so. She knew we were proud of her."
Jordan nodded. "And you said that Emily confided in you, as well."
"Absolutely."
"I've got to tell you, Mrs. Gold," he said. "I'm a little bit jealous." He turned to the jury, inviting them into confidence. "I've got a thirteen-year-old son, and it's not that easy to keep the lines of communication open."
"Maybe you don't make yourself available to listen," Melanie said sarcastically.
"Ah. So that's what you did, those two hours every weeknight? Make yourself available to listen to whatever Emily had to say?"
"Yes. She told me everything."
Jordan leaned against the jury box. "Did she tell you that she was pregnant?"
Melanie's lips pressed together. "No," she said.
"In her eleven weeks of pregnancy, during all those heart-to-hearts, she never mentioned it to you?"
"I said no."
"Why didn't she tell you?"
Melanie smoothed the fabric of her skirt. "I don't know," she said softly.
"Might she have thought that being pregnant would mean not living up to your very high expectations of her? That she might not be able to become an artist, or even go to college?"
"Maybe," Melanie said.
"Might she have been so upset about not meeting your expectations, about not being the perfect daughter anymore, that she was too afraid to tell you?"
Melanie shook her head, tears coming easily now. "I need an answer, Mrs. Gold," Jordan said gently.
"No," she said. "She would have told me."
"But you just told us she didn't," Jordan pointed out. "And Emily isn't here to answer for her reasons. So let's look at the facts: You're saying that Emily was so close to you she told you everything. But her pregnancy--she didn't tell you about that. If she hid something that important from you, isn't it possible that she could have hidden other things as well--for example, the fact that she was thinking of killing herself?"
Melanie covered her face with her hands. "No," she murmured.
"Isn't it possible that the pregnancy triggered the suicidal feelings? That if she couldn't live up to your expectations, she didn't want to live?"
The blame squarely set on Melanie's shoulders, she began to crumble. She sank in the witness stand, curling into herself the same way she had when she'd first found out that her daughter had died. Jordan, realizing he could not push any further without looking bad, walked toward the witness stand and put his hand on Melanie's arm. "Mrs. Gold," he said, handing her his own clean handkerchief. "Ma'am. Allow me." She took the paisley cloth and wiped at her face while Jordan continued to pat her on the shoulder. "I'm very sorry to upset you like this. And I know how devastating it must be to even consider these possibilities. But I do need you to answer me, for the record."
With a supreme effort of will, Melanie drew herself upright. She wiped at her nose and tucked Jordan's handkerchief into her clenched fist. "I'm sorry," she said with dignity. "I'll be all right now."
Jordan nodded. "Mrs. Gold," he said. "Isn't it possible that Emily's pregnancy was what caused her to feel suicidal?"
"No," Melanie said firmly, in a voice that carried. "I know the kind of relationship my daughter and I had, Mr. McAfee. And I know that Emily would have told me everything, in spite of the lies that you're trying to spread. She would have told me if something was bothering her. If she didn't tell me, it was because she wasn't upset about it. Or perhaps she didn't even know for certain, herself, that she was going to have a baby."
Jordan tipped his head to the side. "If she didn't know about the baby, Mrs. Gold, then how could she tell Chris?"
Melanie shrugged. "Maybe she didn't."
"You're saying he might not have known she was pregnant."
"That's correct."
"Then why," Jordan asked, "would he want to kill her?"
THERE WAS A STIR IN THE COURTROOM as Melanie got off the stand. She walked slowly down the center aisle, escorted by a bailiff. As soon as the doors closed behind her, a volley of questions and comments broke out among the gallery, as pervasive and quick as the spread of a fever.
Chris was smiling as Jordan took his seat again. "That," he said, "was awesome."
"Glad you liked it," Jordan said, smoothing his tie.
"What happens next?"
Jordan opened his mouth to tell Chris, but Barrie did it for him. "Your Honor," she said, "the prosecution rests."
"Now," Jordan murmured to his client, "we put on a show."
THEN
November 7, 1997
Emily rubbed the towel down her body and wrapped it around her hair. When she yanked open the bathroom door the cold air of the hall rushed in. She shuddered, careful not to look at the flat plane of her stomach in the mirror as she left.
There was no one in the house, so she walked to her bedroom nude. She straightened her bed and tucked Chris's sweatshirt, the one that smelled like him, around her pillow. But she left her dirty clothes piled on the floor, to give her parents something familiar to come home to.
She sat down at her desk, the towel loose now around her shoulders. There was a stack of art school applications--Rhode Island School of Design, and the Sorbonne, right on top. A blank pad, used for homework.
Should she leave a note?
She picked up a pencil and pressed the tip to the paper, digging hard enough to leave a mark. What did you say to the people who had given you life, when you were about to intentionally throw that gift away? With a sigh, Emily threw down the pencil. You didn't. You didn't say anything, because they'd read between the lines for what you left out, and believe that it was all their fault.
As if that reminded her, she dug in her nightstand for a small, clothbound book, and took it over to the closet. Inside, behind the stack of her shoeboxes, was a small hole, eaten away by squirrels years ago and used, when she and Chris were little, for the stash of secret treasures.
As she reached inside, she found a folded piece of paper. A lemon-juice message, invisible ink that had been revealed when held over a candle flame. She and Chris must have been about ten. They'd passed notes in a tin-can pulley system linked between their bedroom windows, before the fishing line had tangled in the branches of the trees. Emily ran her finger over the torn edges of the paper and smiled. I am coming to save you, Chris had written. If she remembered right, she'd been grounded at the time. Chris had scaled the rose trellis on the side of the house, planning to enter the bathroom window to spring her from her cell--but he'd fallen and broken his arm instead.
She crumpled the paper into her fist. So. This wasn't the first time he'd be saving her by letting her go.
Emily wound her hair into a French braid and went to lie down on the bed. And she stayed that way--naked, the message tight in her palm--until she heard Chris start his car in the driveway next door.
WHEN CHRIS TURNED FIFTEEN, the world had become unfamiliar. Time moved too quickly and impossibly slow all at once; no one seemed to understand what he was saying; ebbs and surges tingled his limbs and stretched his skin. He remembered one summer afternoon, when he and Em had been lazing on a raft in the pond; he had fallen asleep in the middle of one of her sentences and woke up with the sun lower and hotter and Emily still ta
lking, as if both everything and nothing at all had changed.
It was like that, again, now. Emily, whose face Chris could trace with his eyes shut, was suddenly unrecognizable. He'd wanted to give her time to see how crazy this idea was, but all the time had run out and the whole nightmare had snowballed, huge and unwieldy, impossible for Chris to stop in its path. He wanted to save her life--so he was pretending to help her to die. On the one hand, he felt powerless in a world too big for him to alter; on the other hand, his world had shrunk to the head of a pin with room for nothing but him and Emily and their pact. He was paralyzed by indecision--believing with all the unshakable drama of adolescence that he could handle something as enormous as this, and at the same time wanting to whisper the truth in his mother's ear so that she could make it go away.
His hands shook so much he had taken to sitting on them, and there were moments when he was convinced he was losing his mind. He thought of this as a competition he simply had to win, and in the same moment reminded himself that no one died at the end of a race.
He wondered how time had moved so quickly since the night Emily had told him. He wished it would move faster, so that he would be an adult, and like all other adults, would be unable to remember this time of his life clearly.
He wondered why he felt like the road was crumbling beneath him, when he'd only been trying to drive slowly through a safety zone.
SHE SLID INTO THE PASSENGER SEAT, in a motion so familiar that Chris had to close his eyes against the sight of it. "Hi," she said, like always. Chris pulled out of her driveway feeling as if someone had changed the plot of a play he was acting in, forgetting to mention it to him.
They had just rounded the curve of Wood Hollow Road when Emily asked him to pull over. "I want to see it," she said.
Her voice had that high note of excitement, and her eyes, now that he could see them, were glassy and bright. Like she had a fever. And Chris wondered if this wasn't, after all, something that was running through her blood.
He reached into his coat and withdrew the gun, wrapped in a chamois. Emily held out her hand, hesitating to touch it. Then she ran her forefinger down its barrel. "Thank you," she whispered, sounding relieved. "The bullet," she said suddenly. "You didn't forget it?"
Chris patted his pocket.
Emily stared at his hand, covering the heart of his shirt, and then at his face. "Aren't you going to say anything?"
