by Jodi Picoult
I'll never forget anything about her.
Oliver
When Jacob and Emma and I reach the defense table, the courtroom is already full and Helen Sharp is reviewing her notes. --The fun room's great,|| she says, sliding a glance toward me. --Gotta get me one of those.||
By fun room, she means the sensory break zone, which has been erected at the rear of the courtroom. There are heavy soundproof curtains that seal it off from the gallery. Inside there are rubber balls with knobs on them and a vibrating pillow and a Lava lamp and something that reminds me of the long fabric tongues in a car wash. Emma swears all of these function as soothing devices, but if you ask me, they might just as easily have come from a fetish porn movie set.
--If you're going to ask the wizard for something, Helen,|| I suggest, --start with a heart.||
The bailiff calls us to attention, and we stand for the arrival of Judge Cuttings. He takes one look at the four cameras in the back of the courtroom. --I'd like to remind the media they are here only by my decree--a decision that can be changed at any minute if they become intrusive in any way. And the same goes for the gallery--outbursts will not be tolerated during this trial. Counselors, please approach.||
I walk toward the bench with Helen. --Given the previous experiences we've had during closed court sessions,|| the judge says, --I thought it might be prudent to check in with you before we begin. Mr. Bond, how is your client this morning?||
Well, he's on trial for murder, I think. But other than that, he's doing swell.
I have a brief flash of myself sitting on Jacob's chest so that I can button his shirt, of him sprinting down the divided highway. --Never better, Your Honor,|| I say.
--Are there any other problems we need to be made aware of?|| the judge asks.
I shake my head, heartened by the fact that the judge seems to truly care about Jacob's welfare.
--Good. Because a lot of people are watching this trial, and I'll be damned if I'm going to be made to look like a fool,|| he snaps.
So much for human charity.
--And you, Ms. Sharp? You're prepared?||
--One hundred percent, Your Honor,|| Helen says.
The judge nods. --Then let's begin with the prosecution's opening argument.||
Emma offers me a brave smile as I sit down on Jacob's other side. She turns around to locate Theo, who is tucked in the back of the gallery, and then faces forward as Helen begins to speak.
--Four months ago, Jess Ogilvy was a bright, beautiful girl full of hopes and dreams.
A graduate student at the University of Vermont, she was working toward a master's in child psychology. She balanced her studies with part-time jobs--like her recent position as caretaker for a professor's home at sixty-seven, Serendipity Way, Townsend ... and student teaching, and tutoring special needs kids. One of her pupils was a young man with Asperger's syndrome--the same young man, Jacob Hunt, who sits before you as a defendant today. Jess helped Jacob specifically with social skills--teaching him how to engage others in conversation, how to make friends, and how to interact in public--all tasks that were difficult for him. Jess and Jacob met twice a week, on Sundays and on Tuesdays.
But on Tuesday, January twelfth, Jess Ogilvy did not tutor Jacob Hunt. Instead, that young man--the same one she had treated with kindness and compassion--murdered her in a brutal and vicious attack inside her own residence.||
Behind the prosecutor's table, a woman starts weeping quietly. The mother; I don't have to turn around to see that. But Jacob does, and his face twists as he registers something familiar about her--maybe the same line of jaw her daughter had, or the color of the hair.
--Two days before her death, Jess took Jacob out for pizza on Main Street in Townsend. You'll hear evidence from Calista Spatakopoulous, the owner of the restaurant, that Jacob and Jess got into a heated argument that ended with Jess telling Jacob to just get lost.' You'll hear from Mark Maguire, Jess's boyfriend, that when he saw her later that night and on Monday, she was fine--but that she'd disappeared by Tuesday afternoon.
You'll hear from Detective Rich Matson of the Townsend Police Department, who will tell you how officers searched for any sign of Jess for five days to see if she'd been abducted, and finally tracked a GPS signal on her cell phone to find her bruised and battered body lying lifeless in a culvert several hundred yards from her home. You'll hear the medical examiner testify that Jess Ogilvy had abrasions on her back, choke marks around her neck, a broken nose and bruises on her face, a broken tooth ... and that her underwear was on backward.||
I scan the faces of the jurors, each of whom is thinking, What kind of animal would do that to a girl? and then glancing furtively at Jacob.
--And, ladies and gentlemen, you will get to see the quilt that Jess Ogilvy's body was found wrapped in. A quilt that belonged to Jacob Hunt.||
Beside me, Jacob's started to shake. Emma puts her hand on his arm, but he knocks it off. With a finger, I push the Post-it pad I've set in front of him a little closer. I uncap the pen I've given him, willing him to take out his frustration in writing instead of having an outburst.
--The evidence we present will clearly show that Jacob Hunt murdered Jess Ogilvy with premeditation. And at the end of this trial, when the judge instructs you to decide who's responsible, we are confident that you will find that Jacob Hunt killed Jess Ogilvy--a vibrant young woman who considered herself his teacher, mentor, and friend--and then ...|| She walks to the prosecutor's table and rips the top piece of paper off her legal pad.
Suddenly, I realize what she's about to do.
Helen Sharp crumples the paper in one fist and lets it drop to the floor. --He threw her away like trash,|| she says, but by that time, Jacob's started to scream.
Emma
The minute the prosecutor reaches for the legal pad, I can finish the end of her sentence. I start to rise from my seat, but it's too late; Jacob's out of control, and the judge--who has no gavel--is pounding his fist. --Your Honor, can we have a brief recess?|| Oliver yells, struggling to be heard over Jacob's shrieks. --No ... wire hangers ... ever!|| Jacob screams.
--We'll take ten minutes,|| the judge says, and suddenly one bailiff is moving toward the jury to escort them out of the courtroom and another one is coming toward us to take us to the sensory break room. --Counsel, I want to see you at the bench.||
The bailiff is taller than Jacob and is shaped like a bell, heavy in his hips. He wraps one beefy hand around Jacob's arm. --Let's go, buddy,|| he says, and Jacob tries to jerk away from him, and then starts thrashing. He clips the bailiff hard enough to cause him to grunt, and then suddenly Jacob goes boneless, all 185 pounds of him, and falls heavily to the floor.
The bailiff reaches down for him, but I throw myself on top of Jacob instead.
--Don't touch him,|| I say, well aware that the jury is straining to see what's going on even as they're being shooed away, certain that every one of those cameramen has his lens trained on me.
Jacob's crying into my shoulder, making small snuffling sounds as he tries to catch his breath. --Okay, baby,|| I murmur into his ear. --You and I, we're going to do this together.|| I tug until he starts to sit up, and then I wrap my arms around him, struggling to bear the brunt of his weight as we get to our feet. The bailiff opens the gate of the bar for us and leads us down the gallery aisle to the sensory break room. As we pass, the entire courtroom falls dead silent until we are ensconced within the black curtains and all I can hear outside is the tidal swell of a murmur of sound: What was that? ... Never seen anything like it ... The judge won't stand for stunts ... A ploy to get sympathy, I'll bet ...
Jacob buries himself beneath a weighted blanket. --Mom,|| he says from beneath it.
--She crumpled paper.||
--I know.||
--We have to fix the paper.||
--It's not our paper. It's the prosecutor's paper. You have to let it go.||
--She crumpled the paper,|| Jacob repeats. --We have to fix it.||
I
think of the woman on the jury who looked at me with abject pity on her face the moment before she was hustled out of the courtroom. That's a good thing, Oliver would say, but he is not me. I have never wanted to be pitied for having a child like Jacob. I've pitied other mothers, who could slip by on loving their children maybe only 80 percent of the time, or less, instead of giving it their all every minute of every day.
But I have a son who is on trial for murder. A son who behaved the same way the afternoon of Jess Ogilvy's death as he did minutes ago when a piece of paper was torn apart.
If Jacob is a murderer, I will still love him. But I will hate the woman he's turned me into--one whom others talk about when her back is turned, one whom people feel sorry for. Because although I'd never feel that way about a mother whose child has Asperger's, I would feel that way about a mother whose child took the life of another mother's child.
Jacob's voice is a hammer at the back of my head. --We have to fix it,|| he says.
--Yes,|| I whisper. --We do.||
Oliver
--That must be a record, Mr. Bond,|| Judge Cuttings drawls. --We made it a whole three minutes and twenty seconds without an outburst.||
--Judge,|| I say, thinking on the fly, --I can't predict everything that's going to set this kid off. That's part of why you're allowing his mother to be here. But you know, with all due respect, Jacob doesn't just get ten hours of justice. He gets as much justice as he needs.
That's the whole purpose of the constitutional system.||
--Gee, Oliver, I don't mean to interrupt,|| Helen says, --but aren't you forgetting the all-American marching band and the flag that's supposed to drop from the rafters right now?||
I ignore her. --Look. I'm sorry, Your Honor. I'm sorry in advance if Jacob makes you look silly or makes me look silly or--|| I glance at Helen. --Well. As I was saying, I certainly don't want my client having fits in front of the jury; it doesn't do my case any good, either.||
The judge peers over his glasses. --You've got ten minutes to pull your client together,|| he warns. --Then we're coming back in and the prosecution will have a chance to refinish her closing.||
--Well, she can't crumple the paper again,|| I say.
--I believe you lost that motion,|| Helen replies.
--She's right, Counselor. If Ms. Sharp is inclined to crumple a boatload of paper, and your client goes ballistic every time, it's to your own detriment.||
--That's okay, Judge,|| Helen says. --I won't be doing that again. From now on, only folded paper.|| She bends down, picks up the little ball that sent Jacob sky-high, and tosses it in the trash can beside the stenographer's table.
I glance down at my watch--by my calculations I have four minutes and fifteen seconds to get Jacob's perfectly Zen butt into the chair beside me at the defense table. I stalk up the aisle and slip between the black curtains of the sensory break room. Jacob is hidden under a blanket, and Emma sits doubled over a vibrating pillow. --What else aren't you telling me?|| I demand. --What else sets him off? Paper clips? When the clock reads a quarter to twelve? For Christ's sake, Emma, I've only got one trial to convince the jury Jacob didn't snap in a fit of rage and kill Jess Ogilvy. How am I supposed to do that when he can't even make it ten minutes without losing control?||
I'm yelling so loudly that even those stupid curtains probably can't drown me out, and I wonder if the television cameras are picking everything up with their microphones.
But then Emma lifts her face, and I see how red her eyes are. --I'll try to keep him calmer.||
--Aw, shit,|| I say, all the bluster fizzing out of me. --You're crying?||
She shakes her head. --No. I'm fine.||
--Right, and I'm Clarence Thomas.|| I reach into my pocket and pull out a Dunkin'
Donuts napkin, press it into her hand. --You don't have to lie to me. We're on the same side.||
She turns away and blows her nose, then folds--folds, not crumples--the napkin and tucks it into the pocket of her yellow dress.
I pull the blanket off Jacob's head. --Time to go,|| I say.
For a minute I think he's coming, but then he rolls away from me. --Mom,|| he mutters. --Fix it.||
I turn to Emma, who clears her throat. --He wants Helen Sharp to smooth out the paper first,|| she says.
--It's already in the trash can.||
--You promised,|| Jacob says to Emma, his voice rising.
--Jesus,|| I mutter under my breath. --Fine.||
I stalk down the aisle of the courtroom and fish through the trash at the stenographer's feet. She stares as if I've lost my mind, which isn't entirely impossible.
--What are you doing?||
--Don't ask.|| The paper is underneath a candy wrapper and a copy of the Boston Globe. I tuck it into my jacket pocket and walk back to the sensory break room, where I remove it and smooth it out as best as I can in front of Jacob. --That's the best I can do,|| I tell him. --So ... what's the best you can do?||
Jacob stares at the paper. --You had me at hello,|| he says.
Jacob
I hated Mark Maguire before I even laid eyes on him. Jess had changed--instead of focusing only on me when we had our sessions, she'd answer her cell phone or fire back a text message, and every time she did, she smiled. I assumed that I was the reason for her distraction. After all, everyone else seemed to get sick of me quick enough when we were in the middle of a conversation, and it was bound to happen with Jess, although that was my greatest fear. Then one day she said she wanted to tell me a secret. --I think I'm in love,||
she said, and I swear to you, my heart stopped beating for a second.
--Me, too,|| I burst out.
CASE STUDY 1: Let me stop here for a minute and just talk about prairie voles. They are part of only a tiny fraction of the animal kingdom that practice monogamy. They mate for twenty-four hours, and then, just like that, they're together for life. However, the montane vole--which is a close relative, sharing 99 percent of the prairie vole's genetic makeup--has no interest in anything except a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am one-night stand. How come? When prairie voles have sexual intercourse, the hormones oxytocin and vasopressin flood the brain. If the hormones are blocked, prairie voles behave more like those slutty montane voles. Even more interesting, if prairie voles get injections of those hormones but then are prevented from having sex, they still become slavishly devoted to their would-be mates. In other words: you can make a prairie vole fall in love.
The opposite, though, isn't true. You can't give a shot of hormones to a montane vole and make it lovesick. It just doesn't have the right receptors in the brain. It does, however, get a flood of dopamine to the brain when it mates, the hormonal equivalent of Man, that feels good. It's just missing the other two hormones, the ones that help pinpoint that ecstasy to a particular individual. Sure enough, if you genetically modify mice, removing the genes that affect oxytocin or vasopressin, they can't recognize mice they've already met.
I am a prairie vole, trapped in the body of a montane vole. If I think I've fallen in love, it's because I've considered it analytically. (Heart palpitations? Check. Lack of stress in her company? Check.) And it seems to me to be the most likely explanation for what I feel, although I could not truly tell you the difference between feelings for a romantic interest versus feelings for a close friend. Or in my case, my only friend.
Which is why, when Jess told me she was in love, I reciprocated.
Her eyes widened, and so did her smile. --Oh my God, Jacob,|| she said. --We'll have to double-date!||
That was when I realized we weren't talking about the same thing.
--I know you like having time alone for our sessions, but it's good for you to meet people, and Mark really, truly wants to get to know you. He's a part-time ski instructor over at Stowe, and he thought maybe he could give you a free lesson.||
--I don't think I'd be very good at skiing.|| One of the hallmarks of Asperger's is that we can barely walk and chew gum at the same time. I am forever tripping over
my feet or stumbling on a curb; I could easily see myself falling off a chairlift or snowballing down a mountain.
--I'll be there to help, too,|| Jess promised.
And so, the following Sunday, Jess drove me to Stowe and got me fitted for rental skis and boots and a helmet. We hobbled outside and waited near the ski school sign until a black blur whizzed down the hill and sprayed us in a tsunami of powdered snow. --Hey, babe,|| Mark said, pulling off his helmet so that he could grab Jess and kiss her.
In one glance I could tell that Mark Maguire was everything I was not: 1. Coordinated
2. Attractive (if you're a girl, I mean)
3. Popular
4. Muscular
5. Confident
I could also tell that I was one thing Mark Maguire was not: 1. Smart
--Mark, this is my friend Jacob.||
He leaned down into my face and yelled, --Hey, dude, cool to meet you!||
I yelled back, --I'm not deaf!||
He grinned at Jess. He had perfect, white teeth. --You're right. He is funny.||
Had Jess told him I was funny? Had she meant that I made her laugh because I told good jokes or because I was a joke?
In that instant I hated Mark Maguire viscerally, because he'd made me doubt Jess, and up until then I had known, unequivocally, that we were friends.
--So what do you say we give the bunny hill a try?|| Mark asked, and he held out a pole so that he could drag me to the rope tow. --Like this,|| he said, showing me how to grab on to the moving rope, and I thought I had it right but my left hand got screwed up with my right and I wound up spinning backward and collapsing on the little kid behind me. The guy running the rope tow had to shut it off while Mark hauled me to my feet again. --You okay, Jacob?|| Jess asked, but Mark brushed her off.
--He's doing great,|| Mark said. --Relax, Jake. I teach retarded kids all the time.||
--Jacob is autistic, || Jess corrected, and I turned around so fast that I forgot about the skis and fell down in a heap again. --I'm not retarded,|| I shouted, but that statement is somewhat less resonant when one cannot even untangle one's own legs.