by Jodi Picoult
I glance surreptitiously at the judge and make the snap decision to tone it down a little. --So how do we explain Jacob's mother's position to the jury? Easy. We say that the judge has given her a right to sit at counsel table. We say that this isn't usual practice, but in this case she has a right to sit there. As for her role in the trial, Your Honor, I will have her agree not to speak to Jacob but instead to communicate with him via writing, and those notes can be turned in to the court at the close of the day or during each recess, so that Ms.
Sharp gets to see exactly what dialogue is going on between them.||
The judge removes his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. --This is an unusual case, with unusual circumstances. I've certainly had a good number of defendants come in front of me who had a hard time communicating ... But in this case, we have a young man facing very serious charges and possible incarceration for the rest of his life, and we know he has a diagnosed inability to communicate the way the rest of us do ... so it would be an oversight to expect him to behave in a courtroom the way the rest of us would.|| He looks at Jacob, who--I imagine--is still not meeting his gaze. --What a fair trial looks like for this defendant may well be different from what it looks like for others, but that's the nature of America--we make room for everyone, and that's what we're going to do for Mr. Hunt.||
He looks down at the motion before him. --All right. I'm going to allow for the sensory breaks. We will ask the bailiff to set up a special room at the back of the courtroom, and anytime the defendant feels the need to leave, he is to pass a note to you, Mr. Bond. Is that satisfactory?||
--Yes,|| I say.
--Then, Counselor, you may approach and ask me to call for a recess. You will explain to your client that he may not leave the courtroom until the recess has been called and he's been excused by the court.||
--Got it, Your Honor,|| I reply.
--As for your third request, I will not use my gavel for the duration of this trial.
However, I'm not going to turn down the lights. It's a security hazard for the bailiffs.
Hopefully, having sensory breaks will help compensate, and I have no objection to the defendant turning out the lights in the break room in the rear of the court.||
Jacob tugs on my coat. --Can I wear sunglasses?||
--No,|| I say curtly.
--Third, I'll shorten the court sessions. We will break the trial into three forty-five-minute sessions in the morning, two in the afternoon, with fifteen-minute breaks in between. We will adjourn at four P.M. every day. I assume that will be satisfactory, Mr.
Bond?||
--Yes, Your Honor.||
--I agree to allow the defendant's mother to sit at counsel table; however, they can only communicate in writing, and those notes must be turned in to the court at every break.
Finally, in regard to your request for the prosecution's questioning to be direct and simple,||
the judge says, --that I will deny. You can ask whatever short, literal questions you like, Mr.
Bond, but the defendant has no constitutional right to direct how the State chooses to present its case.|| He sticks my motion back inside a folder. --I trust that's all satisfactory, Mr. Bond?||
--Of course,|| I say, but inside, I'm doing handsprings. Because all of these little quirks and concessions are greater than the sum of their parts: the jury cannot help but see that Jacob's different from your average defendant, from the rest of us.
And should be judged accordingly.
Theo
I wake up sneezing.
When I open my eyes, I'm in a pink room and there are feathers tickling my nose. I jackknife upright in the narrow little bed and remember where I am--one of the girls'
rooms. There are mobiles with glittery stars and piles of stuffed animals and a pink camouflage rug.
I sneeze again, and that's when I realize I'm wearing a pink feather boa.
--What the fuck,|| I say, unspooling it from my neck, and then I hear giggling. I lean over the side of the bed and find my father's younger kid--I think her name is Grace--hiding under the bed.
--You said a bad word,|| she tells me.
--What are you doing here?||
--What are you doing here?|| she asks. --This is my room.||
I flop back down on the mattress. Between the time my flight arrived and the Talk, I probably got all of four hours of sleep. No wonder I feel like shit.
She slips out from underneath the bed and sits down beside me. She's really little--I'm not good with kid ages, though. She has purple nail polish on her toes, and she's wearing a plastic tiara.
--How come you're not in school?||
--Because it's Friday, silly,|| Grace says, although this doesn't make any sense to me. --You have really big feet. They're bigger than Leon.||
I'm wondering who Leon is, but then she takes a stuffed pig and holds it up against the bare sole of my foot.
My watch is on the nightstand, next to a book about a mouse too shy to tell anyone her name. I read it last night before I went to bed. It's only 6:42 A.M., but we are leaving early. We've got a plane to catch.
--Are you my brother?|| Grace asks.
I look at her. I try really hard, but I can't see a single feature we have in common.
And that's really weird, because my mom has always told me I remind her of my dad. (For the record, now that I've seen for myself, it's not true. I'm just blond, that's all, and everyone else in my household has dark hair.) --I guess you could say that,|| I tell her.
--Then how come you don't live here?||
I look around at the princess poster on the wall, the china tea set on a table in the corner. --I don't know,|| I say, when the real answer is Because you have another brother, too.
This is what happened last night:
I got off the plane and found my parents--both of them--waiting for me outside airport security. --What the hell?|| I blurted out.
--My thoughts exactly, Theo,|| my mother said curtly. And then, before she could tear me a new one, my father said we were going to his house to discuss this.
He made stupid conversation for the twenty-minute drive, while I felt my mother's eyes boring holes into the back of my skull. When we reached his home, I got a glimpse of a really pretty woman who had to be his wife before he led me into the library.
It was very modern, and totally unlike our house. There were windows that made up one entire wall, and the couch was black leather and full of right angles. It looked like the kind of room you see in magazines at doctors' offices, and not anywhere you'd want to live. Our couch was made of some red, stain-proof fabric, and yet there was a stain on the arm from where I spilled grape juice once. The zippers on two of the pillows were broken.
But when you wanted to flop down and watch TV, it fit you perfectly.
--So,|| my father said, gesturing to a seat. --This is a little awkward.||
--Yeah.||
--I mean, I don't really have much of a right to tell you that running away was a stupid thing to do. And that you scared your mother to death. And I'm not going to tell you that she's out for blood--||
--You don't have to tell me that.||
He clasps his hands between his knees. --Anyway, I've been thinking about it, and I'm not going to tell you any of those things.|| He looks at me. --I figured you came all the way out here so that I would listen. ||
I hesitate. He seems so familiar to me, but that's crazy--given that I talk to him twice a year, on Christmas and my birthday. And yet, maybe that's what being related to someone does for you. Maybe it lets you pick up where you left off, even if that was fifteen years ago.
I want to tell him why I'm there--the story of Jacob's arrest, the truth behind my own breaking and entering, the phone message I never gave my mother from the bank, denying her the second mortgage loan--but all the words jam in my throat. I choke on the sentences until I cannot breathe, until tears spring to my eyes, and what comes out finally is none of these things.
&nb
sp; --Why didn't I matter?|| I say.
This is not what I wanted. I wanted him to see me as the responsible young man I've become, trying to save my family, and I wanted him to shake his head and think, I sure fucked up. I should have stayed with him, gotten to know him. He turned out so well.
Instead, I'm a blubbering mess, with my nose running and my hair in my eyes and I'm so tired; I'm suddenly so freaking tired.
When you expect something, you're sure to be disappointed. I learned that a long time ago. But if this had been my mother sitting next to me, her arms would have wrapped around me in an instant. She would have rubbed my back and told me to relax, and I would have let myself melt against her until I felt better.
My father cleared his throat, and didn't touch me at all.
--I'm, uh, not very good at this kind of thing,|| he said. He shifted, and I wiped my eyes, thinking he was trying to reach out to me, but instead he took his wallet out of his back pocket. --Here,|| he says, holding out a few twenties. --Why don't you take this?||
I look at him, and before I know it, a laugh has snorted its way out of me. My brother is about to be tried for murder, my mother wants my head on a silver platter, my future's so dim I might as well be buried in a coal mine--and my father can't even pat me on the back and tell me I'm going to be okay. Instead, he thinks sixty bucks is going to make everything better.
--I'm sorry,|| I say, laughing in earnest now. --I'm really sorry.||
It strikes me that I'm not the one who should be saying that.
I don't know what I was thinking, coming out here. There are no silver bullets in life, there's just the long, messy climb out of the pit you've dug yourself.
--I think maybe you should go get Mom,|| I say.
I'm sure my father thinks I'm crazy, laughing my ass off like this when a minute before I was sobbing. And as he gets up--relieved to get the hell away from me, I'm sure--I realize why my father seems familiar. It's not because we have anything in common, much less share a genetic code. It's because, with his obvious discomfort and the way he won't look at me now and the fact that he doesn't want physical contact, he reminds me so much of my brother.
I don't speak to my mom the whole time my father is driving us to the airport. I don't say a word when my father gives her a check, and she looks at the number written on it, and cannot speak. --Just take it,|| he says. --I wish ... I wish I could be there for him.||
He doesn't mean it. What he really wishes is that he was capable of being there for Jacob, but my mother seems to understand this, and whatever money he's given her helps, too.
She gives him a quick good-bye hug. Me, I hold out my hand. I don't make the same mistake twice.
We don't talk in the departure lounge, or as we're boarding, or during takeoff. It isn't until the pilot gets on the loudspeaker to mumble about our cruising altitude that I turn to my mother and tell her I'm sorry.
She is flipping through an in-flight magazine. --I know,|| she says.
--Really sorry.||
--I'm sure.||
--Like, about stealing your credit card number. And all of that.||
--Which is why you're paying me back for these tickets--return trips, too--even if it takes you till you're fifty-six,|| she says.
The flight attendant walks by, asking if anyone would like to purchase a beverage.
My mother holds up her hand. --What do you want?|| she asks me, and I say tomato juice.
--And I'll have a gin and tonic,|| she tells the flight attendant.
--Really?|| I am impressed. I didn't know my mother drank gin.
She sighs. --Desperate times call for desperate measures, Theo.|| Then she looks up at me, her brow wrinkled in thought. --When was the last time you and I were alone like this?||
--Um,|| I say. --Never?||
--Huh,|| my mother says, considering this.
The flight attendant returns with our drinks. --Here you go,|| she chirps. --You two getting off in L.A. or continuing on to Hawaii?||
--I wish,|| my mother says, and when she twists the bottle top of the gin, it makes a sighing sound.
--Don't we all?|| The flight attendant laughs, and she moves down the aisle.
The page my mother has stopped at in her magazine is a tourism spread of Hawaii, actually, or at least something equally tropical. --Maybe we should just stay on the plane and go there,|| I say.
She laughs. --Squatters' rights. Sorry, sir, we're not vacating seats Fifteen A and B.||
--By dinnertime, we could be sitting on a beach.||
--Getting tan,|| my mother muses.
--Drinking pina coladas,|| I suggest.
My mother raises a brow. --Virgin for you.||
There is a pause, as we both imagine a life that will never be ours.
--Maybe,|| I say after another moment, --we should bring Jacob along. He loves coconut.||
This will never happen. My brother won't get on a plane; he'd have the Mother of all Meltdowns before that happened. And you can't exactly row a boat to Hawaii. Not to mention the fact that we are categorically broke. But still.
My mother lays her head on my shoulder. It feels weird, like I'm the one taking care of her, instead of the other way around. Already, though, I'm taller than her, and still growing. --Let's do that,|| my mother agrees, as if we have a prayer.
Jacob
I have a joke:
Two muffins are in an oven.
One muffin says, --Wow, it's really hot in here.||
The other one jumps and says, --Yikes! A talking muffin.||
This is funny because
1. Muffins don't talk.
2. I am sane enough to know that. In spite of what my mother and Oliver and practically every psychiatrist in Vermont seem to think, I have never struck up a conversation with a muffin in my entire life.
3. That would just be plain corny.
4. You got that joke, too, right?
My mother said that she would be talking to Dr. Newcomb for a half hour, yet it has been forty-two minutes and she still has not come back into the waiting room.
We are here because Oliver said we have to be. Even though he managed to get all those concessions at court for me, and even though all of those help him prove his insanity defense to the jury (although don't ask me how--insanity is not equivalent to disability, or even quirkiness), apparently we also have to meet with a shrink he's found whose job it will be to tell the jury that they should let me go because I have Asperger's.
Finally, when it has been sixteen minutes longer than my mother said it would be--when I have started to sweat a little and my mouth has gone dry, because I'm thinking maybe my mother forgot about me and I will be stuck in this little waiting room forever--Dr. Newcomb opens the door. --Jacob?|| she says, smiling. --Why don't you come in?||
She is a very tall woman with an even taller tower of hair and skin as smooth and rich as dark chocolate. Her teeth gleam like headlights, and I find myself staring at them.
My mother is nowhere in the room. I feel a hum rise in my throat.
--Where's my mom?|| I ask. --She said she'd be back in a half hour, and now it's forty-seven minutes.||
--We took a little longer than I expected. Your mom went out the back way and is waiting for you just outside,|| Dr. Newcomb says, as if she can read my mind. --Now, Jacob, I've had a lovely talk with your mom. And Dr. Murano.|| She sits down and offers me the seat across from her. It's upholstered in zebra stripes, which I don't really like. Patterns in general make me uneasy. Every time I look at a zebra, I can't figure out whether it's black with white stripes or white with black stripes, and that frustrates me.
--It's my job to examine you,|| Dr. Newcomb says. --I have to give a report back to the court, so what you say here isn't confidential. Do you understand what that means?||
--Intended to be kept secret,|| I say, rattling off the definition and frowning. --But you're a doctor?||
--Yes. A psychiatrist, just like Dr. Murano.||
--Then what I
tell you is privileged,|| I say. --There's doctor-patient confidentiality.||
--No, this is a special circumstance where I'm going to tell people what you say, because of the court case.||
This whole procedure is starting to sound even worse--not only do I have to speak to a psychiatrist I don't know, but she plans to blab about the session. --Then I'd rather talk to Dr. Moon. She doesn't tell anyone my secrets.||
--I'm afraid that's not an option,|| Dr. Newcomb says, and then she looks at me. --Do you have secrets?||
--Everyone has secrets.||
--Does having secrets sometimes make you feel bad?||
I sit very upright on the chair, so that my back doesn't have to touch the crazy zigzagged fabric. --Sometimes, I guess.||
She crosses her legs. They are really long, like a giraffe's. Giraffes and zebras. And I am the elephant, who cannot forget.
--Do you understand that what you did, Jacob, was wrong in the eyes of the law?||
--The law doesn't have eyes,|| I tell her. --It has courts and judges and witnesses and juries, but no eyes.|| I wonder where Oliver dug this one up. I mean, honestly.
--Do you understand that what you did was wrong?||
I shake my head. --I did the right thing.||
--Why was it right?||
--I was following the rules.||
--What rules?||
I could tell her more, but she is going to tell other people, and that means that I will not be the only one who gets into trouble. But I know she wants me to explain; I can tell by the way she leans forward. I shrink back in the chair. It means touching the zebra print, but it's the lesser of two evils.
--I see dead people.|| Dr. Newcomb just stares at me. --It's from The Sixth Sense, || I tell her.
--Yes, I know,|| she says, and she tilts her head. --Do you believe in God, Jacob?||
--We don't go to church. My mom says religion is the root of all evil.||
--I didn't ask what your mom thinks about religion. I asked what you think about it.||
--I don't think about it.||
--Those rules you mentioned,|| Dr. Newcomb says.
Didn't we get off this topic?
--Do you know that there's a rule against killing people?||
--Yes.||
--Well,|| Dr. Newcomb asks, --do you think it would be wrong to kill somebody?||
Of course I do. But I can't say that. I can't say it because to admit to this rule would break another one. I stand up and start walking, bouncing up and down on my toes because sometimes it helps me jog the rest of my brain and body into sync.