by Jodi Picoult
--I have three words for you,|| Jacob says. --Doctor! Henry! Lee!||
--The forensic scientist?|| I am completely not following.
--He's speaking at UNH tomorrow, and she says I can't go.||
Emma looks at me. --Do you see what I'm dealing with?||
I purse my lips, thinking. --Let me talk to him alone for a minute.||
--Seriously?|| Her eyes widen. --Were you not in the same courtroom I was in three hours ago, when the judge told you accommodations should have been made when you questioned Jacob?||
--I'm not questioning him now,|| I tell her. --Not professionally, anyway.||
She throws up her hands. --I don't care. Do what you want. Both of you.||
When her last footstep fades down the stairs, I sit down beside Jacob. --You know you're not supposed to call 911 unless you're in serious trouble.||
He snorts. --So arrest me. Oh, wait, you already did.||
--You ever hear of the boy who cried wolf?||
--I didn't say anything about wolves,|| Jacob replies. --I said I was being abused, and I am. This is the one chance I have to meet Dr. Lee and she won't even consider it. If I'm old enough to be tried as an adult, how come I'm not old enough to walk to the bus stop and travel down there on my own?||
--You're old enough. You'll just wind up with your ass in jail again. Is that what you want?|| From the corner of my eye, I spy a laptop peeking out of a pillowcase. --Why is your computer under the covers?||
He pulls it free and cradles it in his arms. --I thought you'd steal it from me. Just like you took my other stuff.||
--I didn't steal that, I had a warrant to seize it. And you'll get it back, one day.|| I glance at him. --You know, Jacob, your mother is only protecting you.||
--By locking me up in here?||
--No, the judge did that. By not letting you break your bail requirements.||
We are both quiet for a second, and then Jacob glances at me from the corner of his eye. --I don't understand your voice.||
--What do you mean?||
--It should be angry because I made you come all the way out here. But it's not angry. And it wasn't angry when I talked to you at the police station, either. You treated me like I was just a friend of yours, but then you arrested me at the end, and people don't arrest their friends.|| He clasps his hands between his knees. --Frankly, people don't make sense to me.||
I nod in agreement. --Frankly, people don't make sense to me, either,|| I say.
Theo
Why do the cops keep coming to our stupid house?
I mean, given that they've already arrested Jacob, shouldn't they let justice take its course?
Okay, I get that Jacob was the one to summon them this time. But surely a phone call would have been just as effective to get him to call off his request for help. And yet, the police--this one guy in particular--keeps showing up. He chats up my mother, and now I can hear him yapping with Jacob about maggots that land on bodies within ten minutes of death.
Tell me how, exactly, this has any bearing on the 911 call, hmm?
Here's what I think: Detective Matson isn't even here to talk to Jacob.
He's certainly not here to talk to my mother.
He's come because he knows that in order to get to Jacob's room, he has to pass mine, and that means at least two glimpses inside.
Maybe someone has reported missing the Wii game I took.
Maybe he's just waiting for me to crack, to fall at his feet and confess that I was at Jess Ogilvy's place shortly before my brother, so that he can tell that bitch prosecutor to put me on the witness stand to testify against Jacob.
For these reasons and a dozen more I haven't thought of yet, I close my door and lock it, so that when Detective Matson passes by again, I don't have to look him in the eye.
Jacob
I would not have thought it possible, but Rich Matson is not a complete and utter ass.
For example, he told me that you can tell the sex of an individual by looking at the skull, because a male skull has a square chin and a female chin is rounded. He told me that he's been to the Body Farm in Knoxville, Tennessee, where an acre of land is covered with corpses rotting in all different stages, so that forensic anthropologists can measure the effects of weather and insects on human decay. He has pictures and promised to mail me a few.
This is still not Dr. Henry Lee-worthy, but it makes a decent consolation prize.
I learn that he has a daughter who, like Jess, faints at the sight of blood. When I tell him that Jess used to do this, too, his face twists, as if he's smelled something awful.
After a while I promise him not to call the police on my mother again, unless she is causing me dire bodily harm. And he convinces me that an apology to her might go a long way right now.
When I walk him downstairs, my mother is pacing in the kitchen. --Jacob has something to tell you,|| he announces.
--Detective Matson is going to send me photographs of decomposing bodies,|| I say.
--Not that. The other thing.||
I push my lips out and then suck them in. I do it twice, as if I'm melting the words in my mouth. --I shouldn't have called the cops. Asperger's impulsiveness.||
My mother's face freezes, and so does the detective's. Only after I've said it do I realize that they're probably assuming Jess's death was Asperger's impulsiveness, too.
Or in other words, talking about my Asperger's impulsiveness was a bit too impulsive.
--I think we're all set here,|| the detective says. --You two have a nice evening.||
My mother touches his sleeve. --Thank you.||
He looks at her as if he is about to tell her something important, but instead he says,
--You have nothing to thank me for.||
When he leaves, a lick of cold air from outside wraps around my ankles.
--Would you like me to make you something to eat?|| my mother asks. --You never had lunch.||
--No thanks. I'm going to lie down,|| I announce, although I really just want to be alone. I've learned that when someone invites you to do something and you really don't want to, they don't particularly want to hear the truth.
Her eyes fly to my face. --Are you sick?||
--I'm fine,|| I tell her. --Really.||
I can feel her staring at me as I walk up the stairs.
I don't plan to lie down, but I do. And I guess I fall asleep, because all of a sudden Dr. Henry Lee is there. We are crouched down on either side of Jess's body. He examines the tooth in her pocket, the abrasions on her lower back. He looks up the cavities of her nostrils.
Oh yes, he says, crystal clear. I understand.
I can see why you had to do what you did.
CASE 8: ONE IN SIX BILLION
In the 1980s and '90s, over fifty women in the Seattle-Tacoma, Washington, area were murdered. Most of the victims were prostitutes or teen runaways, and most of the bodies were dumped in or near the Green River. Dubbed the Green River Killer, the murderer was unknown until science managed to catch up to crime.
In the early 1980s, while performing autopsies on the victims, pathologists and medical technologists were able to recover small amounts of DNA in semen left behind by the killer.
These were retained as evidence, but then-current scientific techniques proved worthless, since there wasn't enough material for testing.
Gary Ridgway, who was arrested in 1982 on a prostitution charge, was a suspect in the Green River killings, but there wasn't any evidence to formally link him to the crimes.
In 1984, he passed a polygraph test. In 1987, while searching his home, the King County Sheriff's department took a saliva sample from Ridgway.
By March 2001, improvements in DNA typing technology had identified the source of the semen on the victims' bodies. In September 2001, the lab received results: they were able to get a comparative match between the DNA in that semen and the DNA in Ridgway's saliva. A warrant was issued for his arrest.
The DNA results linked Ridgway to three of
the four women listed as victims in his indictment. Sperm samples taken from one of these victims, Carol Ann Christensen, were so conclusive that not more than one person in the world, excluding identical twins, would exhibit that particular DNA profile. Ridgway was charged with three more murders after microscopic paint evidence found with the bodies matched paint at his workplace. In return for confessing to more of the Green River murders, Ridgway was spared the death penalty and is currently serving forty-eight life sentences with no possibility of parole.
8
Oliver
A month later I am sprawled on the couch in the Hunts' living room, caught in a weird deja
vu: I am scanning the discovery that's been sent to me, which includes Jacob's journals on CrimeBusters, while he sits on the floor in front of me watching on TV the very same episode I'm reading about. --Want me to tell you how it ends?|| I ask.
--I already know.|| Not that that's kept him from writing down yet another journal entry, this one in a brand-new composition-style notebook.
Episode 49: Sex, Lies, and iMovie
Situation: After a suicide note is spliced into the credits of a feature at a film festival, a B-movie director is found dead in the back of a car--but the team suspects foul play.
Evidence:
Trailer from festival
Cuttings from editing studio--who is the blonde and is she really dead or just acting?
Hard drive of director's computer
Director's collection of rare butterflies--red herring, entomology not involved Acid in pipes
Solved: By ME! 0:24.
--You figured it out in twenty minutes?||
--Yeah.||
--The butler did it,|| I say.
--No, actually, it's the plumber,|| Jacob corrects.
So much for making a joke.
We've gotten into a routine: instead of staying at my office during the day, I do my trial preparation here at the Hunts'. That way, I can watch Jacob if Emma needs to run out, and I have my client available to answer any questions I've got. Thor likes it, because he spends most of the day curled up in Jacob's lap. Jacob likes it, because I bring the Wii with me. Theo likes it because if I bring guacamole on Green Monday for his brother, I slip a personal-size nongreen sausage pizza into the fridge for him.
I don't really know if Emma likes it.
Theo walks past us in the living room to a file cabinet in the back. --You still doing your homework?|| Jacob asks.
There's not really any malice in his tone--it's flat, like everything else Jacob says--but Theo flips him the bird. Usually Theo's the one to finish his work first, but today, he seems to be dragging.
I wait for Jacob to tell him to go fuck himself, but instead, he just fixes his glassy gaze on the television again.
--Hey,|| I say, approaching Theo.
He startles and takes the piece of paper he's scanning and stuffs it into his jeans pocket. --Stop sneaking up on me.||
--What are you doing in here anyway? Isn't this your mother's file cabinet?||
--Isn't this none of your business?|| Theo says.
--No. But Jacob is. And you should apologize.||
--I should also have five servings of vegetables a day, but that rarely happens,|| he replies, and he heads back into the kitchen to finish his homework.
I know Jacob well enough by now to pick up on the cues that flag his emotions. The fact that he's rocking back and forth slightly means whatever Theo just said rattled him more than he's letting on. --If you tell your mother he does that shit to you,|| I say, --I can bet you it will stop.||
--You don't tell on your brother--you take care of him. He's the only one you've got,|| Jacob recites. --It's a rule.||
If I could only make the jury see how Jacob lives from one decree to another; if I could make the connection between a kid who won't even break one of his mother's rules much less the law governing our country; if I could somehow prove that his Asperger's makes it virtually impossible for him to cross that line between right and wrong--well, I could win his case.
--Hey, after lunch I want to talk to you about what's going to happen later this week when we--||
--Shh,|| Jacob says. --The commercial's over.||
I flip the page and see an entry that doesn't have an episode number.
I start reading, and my jaw drops. --Oh, shit,|| I say out loud.
*
A month ago, after the suppression hearing, I'd called Helen Sharp. --I think you need to give up,|| I told her. --You can't prove the case. We're willing to take probation for five years.||
--I can win this without his police department confession,|| she said. --I've got all the statements that were made at the house before Jacob was in custody; I have the forensic evidence at the scene and eyewitness evidence that goes to motive. I've got his history of violence, and I've got the defendant's journals.||
At the time, I'd shrugged it off. Jacob's journals were formulaic, and every other piece of evidence she listed was something I could excuse away on cross.
--We're going forward,|| Helen had said, and I'd thought, Good freaking luck.
Here's what the journal says:
At Her House. 1/12/10.
Situation: Girl missing.
Evidence:
Clothes in pile on bed
Toothbrush missing, lip gloss missing
Victim's purse and coat remain
Cell phone missing ... cut screen ... boot prints outside match up with boyfriend's footwear.
--Jesus Christ, Jacob,|| I explode, so loud that Emma comes running in from the laundry room. --You wrote about Jess in your CrimeBusters journals?||
He doesn't respond, so I stand and turn off the TV.
--What do you mean?|| Emma says.
I pass her the photocopy of the notebook. --What were you thinking?|| I demand.
Jacob shrugs. --It was a crime scene,|| he says simply.
--Do you have any idea what Helen Sharp is going to do with this?||
--No, and I don't care,|| Emma replies. --I want to know what you're going to do about it.|| She folds her arms and moves a step closer to Jacob.
--I don't know, to be honest. Because after all the work we did to get the police station statement thrown out, this brings it all back in.||
Jacob repeats what I said, and then repeats it again: Brings it all back. Brings it all back. The first time I heard him do it, I thought he was mimicking me. Now I know it's echolalia; Emma explained it to me as just the repetition of sounds. Sometimes Jacob does that by reciting movie quotes, and sometimes it's an immediate parroting of something he's heard.
I just hope no one hears him doing it in court, or they'll assume he's a wiseass.
--Bring it all back,|| Jacob says again. --Bring what all back?||
--Something that's going to make the jury assume you're guilty.||
--But it's a crime scene,|| Jacob says again. --I just wrote down the evidence like usual.||
--It's not a fictional crime scene,|| I point out.
--Why not?|| he asks. --I'm the one who created it.||
--Oh my God,|| Emma chokes. --They're going to think he's a monster.||
I want to put my hand on her arm and tell her I will be able to keep that from happening, but I cannot make that kind of promise. Even having been with Jacob for the past month, like I have, there are still things he does that strike me as utterly chilling--like now, when his mother is hysterical and he turns away without registering any remorse and cranks up the volume on his TV show. Juries, which are supposed to be about reason, are actually always about the heart. A juror who watches Jacob stare blankly through the graphic testimony about Jess Ogilvy's death will deliberate his fate with that image etched in her mind, and it cannot help but sway her decision.
I cannot change Jacob, which means I have to change the system. This is why I've filed a motion, and why we're going to court tomorrow, although I haven't yet broken the news to Emma yet.
--I need to tell you both s
omething,|| I say, as Emma's watch begins to beep.
--Hold on,|| she says, --I'm timing Theo on a math quiz.|| She faces the kitchen.
--Theo? Put your pencil down. Jacob, lower that volume. Theo? Did you hear me?||
When there's no answer, Emma walks into the kitchen. She calls out again, and then I hear her footsteps overhead, in Theo's room. A moment later, she is back in the living room, her voice wild. --He never did his math quiz. And his coat and sneakers and backpack are missing,|| she says. --Theo's gone.||
Theo
Let me just say that I think it's pretty insane that a kid who's fifteen, like me, can fly across the country without a parent. The hardest part was getting the ticket, which turned out to not be very hard at all. It was no secret that my mother keeps an emergency credit card buried in her file cabinet, and honestly, didn't this count as an emergency? All I had to do was dig it out, get the number off the front and the PIN code on the back, and book my ticket on Orbitz.com.
I had a passport, too (we'd driven up to Canada once on a vacation that lasted approximately six hours, after Jacob refused to sleep in the motel room because it had an orange carpet), which was stored one file folder away from the emergency credit card. And getting to the airport was a piece of cake; it took two hitched rides, and that was that.
I wish I could tell you I had a plan, but I didn't. All I knew was that, directly or indirectly, this was my fault. I hadn't killed Jess Ogilvy, but I'd seen her the day she died, and I hadn't told the police or my mother or anyone else--and now Jacob was going to be tried for murder. In my mind, it was like a chain reaction. If I hadn't been breaking into houses at the time, if I hadn't been in Jess's, if I had never locked eyes with her--maybe that missing link would have broken the string of events that happened afterward. It was no great secret that my mother was totally freaking out about where the money would be coming from for Jacob's trial; I figured that if I was ever going to remove my karmic debt, I might as well start by finding the solution to that problem.
Hence: this visit to my father.
On the plane, I am sitting between a businessman who's trying to sleep and a woman who looks like a grandmother--she's got short white hair and a light purple sweatshirt with a cat on it. The businessman is shifting in his seat because he's got a kid behind him who keeps kicking it.