by Jodi Picoult
Clearly, he was asleep and this was a dream. A bad dream. The car following him, his run-in with Wes, and now, these half-dressed girls. Yes, it all made sense now. This was a trick of the mind. He felt safer now, knowing it was not real.
When Gillian took Jack's hand, his entire body jerked. "Oh," she said soothingly, running her fingers through his hair. "Poor Jack." She touched the cuts on his brow and cheek, then lifted her discarded shirt and dabbed at the blood.
Her beautiful breasts were an inch from his mouth, and they looked as real as anything he'd ever seen. From the far corners of his mind, Jack began to struggle. "I can't ... I need to ..."
"Stay here."
Gillian finished for him. She smiled at her friends. "What's the one thing we haven't done tonight?"
The short, plump girl's mouth rounded. "You wouldn't, Gilly."
Jack could suddenly see the scene as if from a great height. This girl, his hand in hers, the ribbons fluttering behind them. You cannot be here, he warned himself, because ... but he could not finish the sentence. He willed his feet to move, but he was too drunk. Get away, he thought, and did not realize he'd spoken aloud until Gillian turned to him. "Don't you like us?"
"I have to go," he said, his voice breaking.
"But you'll help me first, won't you? I need a man for this."
Jack made himself a deal: He would reach something up high or open a pickle jar and then he'd be on his way. But to his surprise, Gillian laced his fingers with hers and tugged him toward the fire. She began to run, until he had no choice but to do what she did, to leap it.
They fell to the ground. Gillian's face was flushed. "Now you're tied to me, for a year."
Jack didn't understand, but then he didn't understand much of anything. The forest was spinning around him. He watched the girls pour drinks from a thermos, pass out biscuits. "For you," Gillian said, and maybe he would have even drunk it if one of the other girls hadn't lost her balance and fallen on top of him.
"Steady." He looked at her--Meg, that was her name, and she was related to a detective in town--but in that moment, she might well have been Catherine Marsh. That was how pure the need was in her eyes. Jack's heart began to pound, and he turned to the other girl, the taller one, and to Gillian--and they all looked that way. They all wore that expression. That want, that incredible one-sided want that had nearly ruined him before.
Jack staggered upright and crashed through the woods, finding the path he had come in on. He stumbled forward for nearly a minute, and then Gillian came running up from behind. She was near tears, her hair wild around her face. "The fire--we can't get it out. We're going to burn the whole forest down. Please," she begged. "You have to come."
He followed her to the clearing, where there was no fire ... and no one else. Before he could ask her what was going on, she threw her arms around his neck and pressed her mouth to his. He choked on the whole of her; he backed up along the edge of the glowing fire, unsure which was the greater danger. Gillian writhed against him, aiming to slip under his skin. And then she took his hand and brought it up to her breast, holding his gaze the whole time, so that he knew this was an offering.
"No," Jack whispered. "No." He put his hands on Gillian's forearms and set her away, fireflies sparking around their bodies. "I said no," he answered more firmly. No. The pine needles quivered, the stars slipped from their perches, history looped back on itself. This was not Gillian Duncan; this was Catherine Marsh. And Jack was being given the chance to defend himself, in a way he never had last year. "You get away from me," he said, his chest heaving, "and you stay away."
But Gillian Duncan, who had always gotten what she wanted and then some, grabbed at him. "I cast a spell," she insisted. "You came to me."
"You came to me," Jack corrected. "And I'm leaving." With a shove, he sent Gillian sprawling, and he ran down the path so far and so fast that for the first time in months, he managed to outstrip his past.
"Jack," Jordan asked. "Did you rape Gillian Duncan on the night of April thirtieth?"
"No."
"How did your skin get under her fingernails?"
"She was trying to keep me there, when I kept trying to get away. Her hands kept grabbing at me. And when she ... kissed me, she had her fingers raking into my scalp."
"How did you get the scratch on your face?"
"From a branch, when I was running. I had it before I ever saw her that night."
"How did your blood get on her clothes?"
"She used her shirt to dab at my cheek."
Jordan crossed his arms. "Do you have any idea how difficult it's going to be for these twelve people to believe your story?"
"Yes." His eyes swept the jury members, compelling them to listen. "I could lie to you and tell you a version of that night that's easier to digest ... like that we were getting intimate and then she changed her mind at the last minute ... but that isn't what happened. The truth is just like I told it. The truth is I didn't rape her."
"Then why would Gillian make up a story like this?"
"I don't know. I don't really know her at all, in spite of what she's said. But if I were seventeen and I was discovered in the woods doing something I didn't want my father to know about ... I guess I'd spin a different story, too. And if I were really smart, I'd dream up a tale that would ruin the credibility of the person who'd intruded ... so that no one would believe him, even if he told the truth."
Jack met his attorney's eyes. That, Jordan communicated silently, is the best we can do. "Your witness," he said, and offered Jack up for sacrifice.
*
It was all Matt could do to not laugh out loud. That had to have been the absolute worst defense he'd ever heard in his life, and he truly believed he could get up and speak Swahili and still manage to win this case. "Ribbons, candles, naked girls ... are you sure, Mr. St. Bride, that you didn't leave out any pink elephants?"
"I'm sure I would have had no trouble remembering those," Jack answered dryly.
"But you yourself say it's hard to believe."
"Just being honest."
"Honest." Matt snorted, to let Jack know what he thought of that assessment. "You testified that you were very drunk. How can you be sure this recollection is accurate?"
"I just know it is, Mr. Houlihan."
"Isn't it possible that in your ... drunken stupor ... you raped Ms. Duncan and then blacked it out of your mind?"
"If I was drunk enough to suffer a blackout," Jack countered, "surely I was too drunk to be physically capable of sexual intercourse."
Matt turned, surprised by the gauntlet the defendant had thrown. "So your theory of why Gillian Duncan became hysterical, sobbing, claimed you raped her, went to the hospital to undergo an invasive physical exam and have a sexual assault kit done, reported the rape to the police, and now has come to tell a panel of strangers the intimate details of how you sexually assaulted her ... is because she was scared of her father?"
"I don't know. I'm just telling you what happened."
"All right," Matt said. "You've given us your explanation for why your skin was found beneath Ms. Duncan's fingernails ... because she was grabbing at you to get you to stay, correct?"
"Yes."
"Ms. Duncan didn't give you the scratch on your cheek--the injury was sustained in the woods, on a branch?"
"Yes."
"Your blood was on her clothes because she was trying to clean up that scratch by dabbing it with her shirt?"
"Yes."
Matt frowned. "Then what's your explanation for why semen matching yours was found on her thigh?"
"Objection!" Jordan leaped up, furious. "Approach!"
The judge waved the attorneys closer. "The semen wasn't a match," Jordan said angrily. "The state's expert even deemed the results inconclusive."
Matt scowled. "She said this defendant was seven hundred forty thousand times more likely to have been the donor of the semen than anyone else. Those are still pretty damn good odds."
; "However," the judge said, "it's too prejudicial. The jury has the information about the semen; they can do with it what they will. I'm sorry, Mr. Houlihan, but I'm not going to allow you to pursue that line of questioning." She turned to the jury as the lawyers returned to their corners. "You'll disregard that last question," Judge Justice instructed, although Matt's words still hung in the air, as sharp and as precarious as a guillotine's blade.
"Mr. St. Bride," Matt said, "you find yourself in the woods with a quartet of teenage girls who are not only perhaps interested in having sex ... but are naked ... yet you don't turn around and run as fast as humanly possible away from there?"
"I said I needed to get away, over and over."
"Actually, you said you jumped over a fire hand in hand with one of them. And that you looked around closely enough to see there were things hanging from the trees."
"I also said that Gillian Duncan was the one who came on to me," Jack said, trying very hard to keep his voice from rising.
"Was anyone else around when she attacked you?"
"No."
"Where were the other girls?"
"I don't know."
"How convenient. Was she still naked?"
Jack shook his head. "She had gotten dressed."
"And then she proceeded to throw herself at you?"
"Yes."
Matt crossed his arms. "This five-foot-four, one-hundred-ten-pound girl forcibly held you there?"
"I got away as quickly as I could. I said no, shoved her off me, and ran. Period."
"So ... this is the second time in a space of two years that a teenage girl has falsely accused you of sexual assault?"
"That's correct." Heat climbed the ladder of Jack's neck.
Matt raised his brows. "Aren't you asking the jury to believe you're the unluckiest man on the face of this earth?"
Jack took a deep breath. "I'm asking the jury to believe me."
"Believe you," Matt repeated. "Believe you. Huh. Mr. St. Bride, you heard the expert who testified that soil from your boots matches the soil in the clearing of the woods?"
"Yes, I did."
"And you heard the DNA expert who showed that your blood was on Ms. Duncan's clothing and your skin was underneath her fingernails?"
"Yes."
"You heard Ms. Duncan testify that you were with her that night?"
"Yes."
"And you heard Ms. Abrams and Ms. O'Neill corroborate that?"
"Yes, I did."
"You've seen numerous amounts of evidence that place you at the crime scene, isn't that right?"
"Yes."
Matt tilted his head, questioning. "Then how come when the police came to arrest you, the very first thing you did was lie about being there?"
Jack's mouth opened and closed, no words rising to the surface. "I--I don't know," he finally managed to say. "It was an instinctive response."
"Lying is an instinctive response for you?"
"That's not what I meant--"
"But," Matt argued, "it's what you said. Did you or did you not already lie once about your whereabouts that night?"
"Yes, I did," Jack murmured.
The prosecutor turned and pinned him with his gaze. "Then why should the jury believe you now?"
"He's good," Selena mused. "He's really, really good."
Jordan slammed the car door and stalked up the walk toward his house. "If you're such a huge fan, then why don't you go sleep with Matt Houlihan tonight?"
The defense had rested and court had been dismissed. Closing arguments would begin the next morning, which meant Jordan had approximately seventeen hours to conjure sheer brilliance. Burning against his heart was the little packet Starshine had given him for Jack's defense. He was going to sleep with it under his goddamn pillow; at this point, he'd take any help he could get.
He knew and the prosecutor knew--and even the jury knew--that Jordan had not conducted a defense of his client--he'd simply tried to make Gillian out to be something other than the little princess she made herself out to be. But a witch could be raped. A drug user could be raped. And if Jordan had been sitting on that jury, he would not have been inclined to believe anything Jack St. Bride had to say.
At the door, he tried to jam his key into the lock and couldn't manage to get it to fit. "Goddamn," he said, wedging it in again. "Goddammit!"
A second attempt, and the key stuck fast. With a mighty wrench, Jordan managed to pull it free of the hole, then swore and hurled his entire key chain into the bushes off the porch. He stared after it, his whole body shaking.
"Jordan," Selena said, touching his arm.
He burrowed into her embrace, pressed his face against her neck, and silently apologized to Jack St. Bride.
Addie volunteered to close up the diner. "Come upstairs," Roy urged through the door of the ladies' room, as she changed. "We'll have iced tea, watch a little TV."
Zipping up her uniform, Addie came out of the restroom. "Dad, I need to do this. I want to do this." What she really wanted, actually, was to hit something until her bones broke. Scouring floors, scrubbing counters, wiping the grill--these were better uses of her time.
She pushed past her father into the kitchen. It always seemed like a ghost town after hours, bathed in shades of gray and haunted by the scents of the foods it had harbored. Addie picked up the wire brush that hung on the side of the stove and began to scrape down the grill with brusque, mechanical movements.
"I'll help you, then," her father said, rolling up his sleeves.
"Dad." She met his eyes. "Right now, I just want to be alone."
"Ah, Addie." Roy moved forward, hugging her tightly, until the wire brush dropped from her hand and her sob curled into his chest like a kitten's mewing.
"I'm not going to be able to say good-bye," Addie whispered. "Visiting hours aren't until next Wednesday. And by then ... by then, he could be in the prison in Concord."
"Then you'll go visit in Concord. I'll drive you every day after work, if I have to."
Addie offered him a weak smile. "On what, Dad? The lawn mower?" She squeezed his hand. "Maybe I will come up for iced tea, all right? Just give me a while to sort things out in my head."
She felt her father's eyes on her as she took a jug of bleach from a shelf and began to wash down the dishwashing table and stainless sinks. Her mother used to say that a little bleach could go a long way toward making the shabbiest circumstances shine.
Her mother had not been in love with Jack St. Bride.
Once Roy went upstairs, Addie attacked the kitchen. She rubbed down the sneeze guard of the cold table and wiped clean its cool innards. She scraped burned patches from the base of the oven. She scrubbed and washed until her knuckles bled within her rubber gloves, and she had to wrap her hands in a damp dishcloth, just to ease the pain.
She was working with such a frenzy, she never heard the front door of the diner open. "I hope you're paying yourself well," Charlie said.
Addie jumped a foot, slamming her head against the base of the warming table. "Oh!"
"Jeez, Addie, are you all right?" Charlie rushed forward to help her, but the moment he was within the range of being able to touch, they both froze. Addie backed off, her hand to her forehead.
"Fine. That was just stupid of me." She hugged her arms to her chest. "Is this about Jack?"
Charlie shook his head. "Is there ... could we sit down for a second?"
Nodding slowly, Addie followed him into the front room of the diner. They slid across from each other in a booth. The barrier of a table between them helped, and being away from the bleach fumes cleared her head. But Charlie showed no signs of speaking. "How is Meg?" Addie asked after a moment.
"All right. Thanks for asking." Charlie tapped his fingertips on the table. "After all that's been said in that courtroom, I don't know what's going to come of her, really."
"Take it one day at a time." Addie looked at the clock. Swallowed.
"Addie," Charlie said, "I owe you an apology."
Her eyes reluctantly met his. "Why?"
"I've been listening to the testimony. And I've been helping the prosecution for weeks. And it's made me ... it's made it all come back clearer than ever. God, I'm doing a shitty job of this ..." Charlie rubbed his hand over his face. "I thought I'd live in Miami, get a job on the force, and just forget Salem Falls. Then Chief Rudlow invited me back north, and I told myself enough time had passed to just wipe away the memory. After nearly a decade, I assumed that if I didn't think about it, no one else would, either." He hunched over the table, as if drawing strength from within. "But you've thought about, every day, haven't you?"
Addie closed her eyes, then nodded.
"I knew what was coming that afternoon under the bleachers, when Amos called you over. I was drunk, sure, but I knew what I was doing. And for reasons I can't even stand to think of, I went along with it ... and then followed the others, when they acted like it hadn't happened at all." Charlie lowered his gaze. "Damn, Addie, how do you tell someone you're sorry you ruined their life?"
It took Addie a long time to speak. "You didn't ruin my life, Charlie. You raped me. There's a difference: One, I couldn't keep from happening ... but the other, I could. I did." She thought of Chloe, of Jack. "The more you get past pain, the more it goes from coal to diamond."
Charlie's eyes were red-rimmed, stricken. "I'm not going to ask you to forgive me, and I know I can't ask you to forget. But I want you to know, for whatever it's worth, that I don't forgive myself ... and I'll never forget, either."
"Thank you," Addie whispered, "for that."
She heard the door jingle closed behind him and she sat at the booth with her legs completely limp, waiting for her heart to stop beating triple-time. After all these years, who would have expected validation? After all these years, who would have expected that simply hearing the words made her feel like starting over?
She was jolted out of her reverie by the sound of the door opening again. Charlie must have forgotten something. But before she could turn around, Addie heard the voice of a young woman, the thud of a suitcase being dropped on the floor. "They said I'd find you here."
And suddenly Addie was face to face with Catherine Marsh.
