House Rules

by Jodi Picoult

  But I don't answer.

  Dr. Newcomb isn't giving up, though. --When you were at Jess's house on the day she died, did you understand that it's wrong to kill somebody?||

  --I'm not bad,|| I quote. --I'm just drawn that way.||

  --I really need you to answer the question, Jacob. On the day that you were at Jess's house, did you feel like you were doing something wrong?||

  --No,|| I say immediately. --I was following the rules.||

  --Why did you move Jess's body?|| she asks.

  --I was setting up a crime scene.||

  --Why did you clean up the evidence at the house?||

  --Because we're supposed to clean up our messes.||

  Dr. Newcomb writes something down. --You had a fight with Jess during your tutoring session a couple of days before she died, right?||

  --Yes.||

  --What did she say to you that day?||

  -- Just get lost.'||

  --But you went to her house on Tuesday afternoon anyway?||

  I nod. --Yes. We had an appointment.||

  --Jess was obviously upset with you. Why did you go back?||

  --People are always saying things that aren't true.|| I shrug. --Like when Theo tells me to get a grip. It doesn't mean hold something, it means calm down. I assumed Jess was doing the same kind of thing.||

  --What were your reactions to the victim's responses?||

  I shake my head. --I don't know what you're talking about.||

  --When you got to Jess's house, did you yell at her?||

  At one point I had leaned right down into her face and screamed at her to wake up.

  --Yes,|| I say. --But she didn't answer me.||

  --Do you understand that Jess is never coming back?||

  Of course I understand that. I could probably tell Dr. Newcomb a thing or two about body decomposition. --Yeah.||

  --Do you think Jess was scared that day?||

  --I don't know.||

  --How do you think you would have felt, if you were the victim?||

  For a moment, I consider this. --Dead,|| I say.

  Oliver

  Three weeks before we go to trial, we start jury selection. You would think that, with autism being diagnosed at the rate it currently is, finding a jury of Jacob's peers--or at least parents who have children on the spectrum--would not be as difficult as it is. But the only two jurors with autistic children who are in our initial pool are the ones Helen uses her peremptory strikes against to get them removed.

  In between my stints in court, I receive the reports from Dr. Newcomb and Dr. Cohn, the two psychiatrists who've met with Jacob. Unsurprisingly, Dr. Cohn has found Jacob quite sane--the State's shrink would declare a toaster sane--and Dr. Newcomb has said that Jacob was legally insane at the time the crime was committed.

  Even so, Newcomb's report isn't going to be that much help. In it, Jacob comes off sounding like an automaton. The truth is, jurors might want to be fair, but their gut instinct about a defendant has a great deal to do with the verdict rendered. Which means that I'd better stack the odds to make Jacob look as sympathetic as possible, since I have no intention of letting him actually testify. With his flat affect, his darting eyes, his nervous tics--well, that would just be a disaster.

  A week before the trial begins, I turn my attention to getting Jacob ready for court.

  When I reach the Hunt household, Thor bolts out of the car and runs to the porch, his tail wagging. He's gotten pretty attached to Theo, to the point where I sometimes wonder if I ought to just leave him curled up on the kid's bed overnight, since he seems to have taken up residence there anyway. And God knows Theo needs the company--in the wake of his cross-country journey, he's been grounded until he's thirty--although I keep telling him that I can probably find a reason to appeal.

  I knock, but no one answers the door. I've gotten used to letting myself inside, though, so I walk in and watch Thor trot upstairs. --Hello,|| I call out, and Emma steps forward with a smile.

  --You're just in time,|| she says.

  --For what?||

  --Jacob got a hundred on a math test, and as a reward I'm letting him set up a crime scene.||

  --That's macabre.||

  --Just another day in my life,|| she says.

  --Ready!|| Jacob calls from upstairs.

  I follow Emma, but instead of heading to Jacob's room, we continue on to the bathroom. When she pushes open the door, I gag, my hand pressed against my mouth.

  --What ... what is this?|| I manage.

  There is blood everywhere. It's like I've stepped into the lair of a serial killer. One long line of blood arcs horizontally across the white shell of the shower wall. Facing that, on the mirror, are a series of drops in various elongated shapes.

  Even more strange, Emma doesn't seem to be the least bit upset that the walls of the shower and the mirror and sink are completely drenched with blood. She takes one look at my face and starts laughing. --Relax, Oliver,|| she says. --It's just corn syrup.||

  She reaches over to the mirror, dabs her finger to the mess, and holds it up to my lips.

  I can't resist the urge to taste her. And yeah, it is corn syrup, with red dye, I'm guessing.

  --Way to contaminate a crime scene, Mom,|| Jacob mutters. --So you remember that the tail of the bloodstain usually points in the direction the blood was traveling ...||

  All of a sudden I can see Jess Ogilvy standing in the shower, and Jacob across from her, standing right where Emma is.

  --I'll give you a hint,|| Jacob tells Emma. --The victim was right here.|| He points to the bath mat between the shower stall and the mirror over the sink.

  I can easily picture Jacob with a bleach solution, wiping down the mirror and the tub at Jess Ogilvy's place.

  --Why the bathroom?|| I ask. --What made you choose to set your crime scene here, Jacob?||

  Those words are all it takes to make Emma understand why I'm so shaken. --Oh, God,|| she says, turning. --I didn't think ... I didn't realize ...||

  --Blood spatter's messy,|| Jacob says, confounded. --I thought my mom would be less likely to yell at me if I did it in the bathroom.||

  A line from Dr. Newcomb's report jumps out at me: I was following the rules.

  --Clean it up,|| I announce, and I walk out.

  --New rules,|| I say, when the three of us are sitting at the kitchen table. --First and foremost: No more crime scene staging.||

  --Why not?|| Jacob demands.

  --You tell me, Jake. You're on trial for homicide. You think it's smart to create a fake murder a week before your trial? You don't know what neighbors are peeking through your curtains--||

  --(A) Our neighbors are too far to see through the windows and (B) that crime scene upstairs was nothing like what was at Jess's house. This one showed the arterial bleed in the shower and also the cast-off pattern of blood flung from the knife that killed the victim behind her, on the mirror. At Jess's--||

  --I don't want to hear it,|| I interrupt, covering my ears.

  Every time I think I have a chance to save Jacob's ass, he does something like this.

  Unfortunately, I waver between thinking that behavior like what I've just witnessed proves my case (how could he not be considered insane?) and thinking that it's chillingly off-putting to a jury. After all, Jacob's not talking to imaginary giant rabbits, he's pretending to kill someone. That looks pretty fucking deliberate to me. That looks like practice so that, in reality, he might get it perfect.

  --Rule number two: you need to do exactly what I tell you in court.||

  --I've been to court, like, ten times now,|| Jacob says. --I think I can figure it out.||

  Emma shakes her head. --Listen to him,|| she says quietly. --Right now, Oliver's the boss.||

  --I'm going to give you a stack of Post-its every time we walk into that courtroom,||

  I tell him. --If you need a break, you hand me a note.||

  --What kind of note?|| Jacob says.

  --Any note. But you only do it if
you need a break. I'm also going to give you a pad and a pen, and I want you to write stuff down--just like you would if you were watching CrimeBusters. ||

  --But there's nothing interesting going on in that courtroom--||

  --Jacob,|| I tell him flatly, --your life is being decided in there. Rule number three: you can't talk to anyone. Not even your mother. And you,|| I say, turning to Emma, --cannot tell him how he's supposed to feel, or react, or what he should look like or how he should act. Everything you two pass back and forth is going to be read by the prosecution and the judge. I don't even want you two discussing the weather, because they're going to interpret it, and if you do anything suspicious, you're going to be kicked off that counsel table. You want to write Breathe, that's fine. Or It's okay, don't worry. But that's as specific as I want you to get.||

  Emma touches Jacob's arm. --You understand?||

  --Yes,|| he says. --Can I go now? Do you have any idea how hard it is to get corn syrup off a wall once it dries?||

  I completely ignore him. --Rule number four: you will wear a button-down shirt and a tie, and I don't want to hear that you haven't got the money for it because this isn't negotiable, Emma--||

  --No buttons,|| Jacob announces, in a tone that brooks no argument.

  --Why not?||

  --Because they feel weird on my chest.||

  --All right,|| I say. --How about a turtleneck?||

  --Can't I wear my lucky green sweatshirt?|| Jacob asks. --I wore it when I took my SATs, and I got 800 on the math section.||

  --Why don't we go up to your closet and find something?|| Emma suggests, and we all trudge upstairs again, this time to Jacob's room. I studiously avoid looking into the bathroom as we pass.

  Although the police still have his fuming chamber as evidence, Jacob has configured a new one, an overturned planter. It's not transparent, like his fish tank, but it must be getting the job done, because I can smell the glue. Emma throws open the closet door.

  If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I would never have believed it. Chromatically ordered, Jacob's clothes hang side by side, not quite touching. There are jeans and chinos in the blue area; and a rainbow of long-and short-sleeved tees. And yes, in its correct sequence, the lucky green sweatshirt. It looks like a Gay Pride shrine in there.

  There is a fine line between looking insane in court and looking disrespectful. I take a deep breath, wondering how to explain this to a client who cannot think beyond the feeling of a placket of buttons on his skin. --Jacob,|| I say, --you have to wear a shirt with a collar. And you have to wear a tie. I'm sorry, but none of this will work.||

  --What does the way I look have to do with you telling the jury the truth?||

  --Because they still see you,|| I answer. --So you need to make a good first impression.||

  He turns away. --They're not going to like me anyway. Nobody ever does.||

  He doesn't say this in a way that suggests he feels sorry for himself. More like he's just telling me a fact, relating the way the world works.

  After Jacob leaves to clean up his mess, I remember that Emma's in the room with me. --The bathroom. I ... I don't know what to say.|| She sinks down onto Jacob's bed. --He does this all the time--sets up scenes for me to solve. It's what makes him happy.||

  --Well, there's a big difference between using a bottle of corn syrup to get your jollies and using a human being. I don't need the jury to be wondering how far a leap there is from one to the other.||

  --Are you nervous?|| she asks, turning to face me.

  I nod. I probably shouldn't be admitting this to her, but I can't help it.

  --Can I ask you something?||

  --Sure,|| I say. --Anything.||

  --Do you believe he killed Jess?||

  --I already told you that doesn't matter to a jury--we're utilizing the defense most likely to--||

  --I'm not asking you as Jacob's lawyer,|| Emma interrupts. --I'm asking you as my friend.||

  I draw in my breath. --I don't know. If he did, I don't believe it was intentional.||

  She folds her arms. --I just keep thinking that if we could get the police to reopen the case, to look harder at Jess's boyfriend--||

  --The police,|| I say, --think they've found their murderer, based on the evidence. If they didn't, we wouldn't be going to court on Wednesday. The prosecutor thinks she's got enough proof to make a jury see things her way. But Emma, I'm going to do everything I can to keep that from happening.||

  --I have a confession to make,|| Emma says. --When we saw Dr. Newcomb? I was supposed to meet with her for a half hour. I told Jacob that I'd be thirty minutes. And then I very intentionally kept talking for another fifteen. I wanted Jacob to get rattled, because I was late. I wanted him stimming by the time he met with her, so that she'd be able to write about all that behavior in the court report.|| Emma's eyes are dark and hollow. --What kind of mother does that?||

  I look at her. --One who's trying to save her son from going to prison.||

  Emma shivers. She walks to the window, rubbing her arms, even though it is downright hot in the room. --I'll find him a collared shirt,|| she promises. --But you'll have to get it on him.||

  CASE 9: PAJAMA GAME

  Early in the morning on February 17, 1970, the officers at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, responded to a call from Army Doctor Jeffrey MacDonald. They arrived to find his pregnant wife, Colette, and two young daughters dead from multiple stab wounds. Colette had been stabbed thirty-seven times with a knife and an ice pick, and MacDonald's torn pajama top was draped on top of her. On the headboard of the bed, in blood, was the wordPIG.MacDonald himself was found with minor wounds, beside his wife. He said he'd been hurt by three males and a woman in a white hat who chanted, --Acid is groovy, kill the pigs.|| When the men attacked him, MacDonald said that he pulled his pajama top over his head and used it to block the jabs of the ice pick. Eventually, he said, he was knocked unconscious.

  The Army didn't believe MacDonald. The living room, for example, didn't show signs of a struggle, except for an overturned table and plant. Fibers from the torn pajama top were not found in the room where it was torn but rather in the bedrooms of his daughters. They theorized that MacDonald killed his wife and daughters and tried to cover up the murders by using articles about the Manson Family in a magazine that was found in the living room.

  The Army dropped the case because of the poor quality of the investigative techniques, and MacDonald was honorably discharged.

  In 1979 MacDonald was tried in a civilian court. A forensic scientist testified that the doctor's pajama top, which he said had been used to block his attackers, had forty-eight clean, cylindrical holes that were too tidy for a violent attack--to make a hole that shape, the top would have had to be immobile, something that was very unlikely if MacDonald was defending himself from someone trying to stab him. The scientist also showed how, by folding the top a certain way, those forty-eight holes could have been created by twenty-one jabs--the exact number of times Colette MacDonald had been stabbed with an ice pick. The holes lined up with the pattern of her wounds, indicating that the pajama top had been placed on her before she was stabbed and not used in self-defense by MacDonald. He was sentenced to life in prison for three murders and still maintains that he is innocent.

  9

  Theo

  It isn't the first time I've wrestled my brother into a coat and tie. --Jesus, Jacob, cut it out before you give me a black eye,|| I mutter, holding his hands pinned over his head and straddling his body, which twists like a fish that's suddenly found itself on a dock. My mother is working her hardest to make a knot in his tie, but Jacob's thrashing so much that it's practically a noose.

  --Do you really need to button it?|| I yell, but I doubt she can hear me. Jacob's got us beat in sheer decibels. I bet the neighbors can hear him, and I wonder what they think. Probably that we're sticking pins in his eyeballs.

  My mother manages to fasten one of the tiny buttons on the oxford shirt collar before Jacob bi
tes her hand. She makes a little squeak and jerks her fingers away from his neck, leaving one of the buttons still unfastened. --That's good enough,|| she says, just as Oliver arrives to pick us all up for the first day of the trial.

  --I knocked,|| he says, but obviously we wouldn't have heard him downstairs.

  --You're early,|| my mother answers. She is still wearing a bathrobe.

  --Well, let's see the finished product,|| Oliver says, and my mom and I both step away from Jacob.

  Oliver looks at him for one long moment. --What the hell is this?|| he asks.

  Okay, I'll admit, Jacob's not going to win any fashion awards, but he's in a coat and tie, which were the criteria. He is wearing a polyester suit the color of an egg yolk that my mother found at a thrift store. A pale yellow shirt, with a stretchy golden knit tie.

  --He looks like a pimp, || Oliver says.

  My mother presses her lips together. --It's Yellow Wednesday.||

  --I don't care if it's polka-dot Sunday,|| Oliver says. --And neither does anyone on that jury. That's the kind of suit Elton John wears to a gig, Emma, not what a defendant wears to trial.||

  --It was a compromise,|| my mother insists.

  Oliver runs a hand down his face. --Didn't we talk about a blue blazer?||

  --Fridays are blue days,|| Jacob says. --I'm wearing one then.||

  --And coincidentally you are also wearing it today,|| Oliver replies. He glances at me. --I want you to help me, while your mother goes and gets dressed.||

  --But--||

  --Emma, I don't have time to fight with you right now,|| Oliver tells her.

  My mother is planning to wear a very simple dark gray skirt with a blue sweater. I was here when Oliver went through her entire closet channeling his inner Heidi Klum and picked out what he said would be --dark and conservative.||

  Angry, my mother huffs out of Jacob's room. I fold my arms. --I just got him into those clothes. No way I'm getting him out of them.||

  Oliver shrugs. --Jacob, take that off.||

  --Gladly,|| Jacob explodes, and he rips the clothes off his own body in seconds flat.

  Oliver tackles him. --Get the pin-striped shirt and the blazer and the red tie,|| he orders, squinting into Jacob's open closet. The second I do, Jacob takes one look at the clothing--styles he hates, plus they're the wrong color--and lets out a bloodcurdling scream.