House Rules: A Novel

by Jodi Picoult

  “With all due respect, Your Honor,” I reply, “I think the court should listen to my client’s mother and psychiatrist.”

  The judge waves me on, and with a gesture, I motion Emma to come forward to the witness stand. She has dark shadows beneath her eyes, and her hands are shaking. I watch her move them from the railing to her lap, so that the judge cannot see. “Please state your name and address,” I say.

  “Emma Hunt … 132 Birdseye Lane in Townsend.”

  “Is Jacob Hunt, the defendant in this case, your son?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Can you tell us how old Jacob is?”

  Emma clears her throat. “He turned eighteen in December.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “With me, in Townsend.”

  “Is he in school?” I ask.

  “He goes to Townsend Regional High School; he’s a senior.”

  I look directly at her. “Ms. Hunt, does Jacob have any particular medical condition that makes you concerned for his safety while he’s in jail?”

  “Yes. Jacob’s been diagnosed with Asperger’s syndrome. It’s high-functioning autism.”

  “How does Asperger’s affect Jacob’s behavior?”

  She pauses for a moment, glancing down. “When he decides to do something, he needs to do it immediately,” Emma says. “If he can’t, he gets very agitated. He hardly ever shows emotion—either happy or sad—and he can’t relate to the conversations of kids his own age. He takes words very, very literally—if you asked him to eat with his mouth closed, for example, he’d tell you that’s impossible. He has hypersensitivity issues: bright lights, loud noises, and light touches set him off. He doesn’t like being the center of attention. He needs to know exactly when something is going to happen, and if his routine gets disrupted, he becomes extremely anxious and acts in a way that makes him stand out even more: flapping his hands at his sides, or talking to himself, or repeating movie lines over and over. When things are really overwhelming, he’ll go somewhere to hide—his closet, or under his bed—and he’ll stop speaking.”

  “Okay,” says Judge Cuttings. “So your son is moody, literal, and wants to do things his way and on his own timetable. That sounds very much like a teenager.”

  Emma shakes her head. “I’m not explaining this well. It’s more than just being literal, or wanting a routine. An ordinary teenager decides not to interact … for Jacob, it’s not a choice.”

  “What sorts of changes have you seen since your son’s incarceration?” I ask.

  Emma’s eyes fill with tears. “He’s not Jacob,” she says. “He’s hurting himself, on purpose. He’s regressing in his speech. He’s started stimming again—flapping his hands, bouncing on his toes, walking in circles. I’ve spent fifteen years trying to make Jacob a part of this world instead of allowing him to isolate himself … and a single day in that jail reversed everything.” She looks at the judge. “I just want my son to come back, before it’s too late to reach him.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “Nothing further.”

  Helen Sharp stands up. She is easily six feet tall. Did I not notice that when she walked in? “Your son … has he ever been incarcerated before?”

  “No!” Emma answers.

  “Has he ever been arrested before?”

  “No.”

  “Are there other times you’ve witnessed a backslide in your son’s behavior?”

  “Yes,” Emma says. “When plans change at the last minute. Or when he’s upset and can’t verbalize that.”

  “Then isn’t it possible that his current behavior has nothing to do with incarceration, and everything to do with him feeling guilty for committing a horrific crime?”

  Heat floods Emma’s face. “He would never do what you’ve accused him of doing.”

  “Maybe, ma’am, but at this point your son’s been charged with first-degree murder. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Emma says tightly.

  “And your son has been placed in protective custody, so his safety isn’t at issue—”

  “If his safety wasn’t at issue, would he have to be in a padded cell in the first place?” Emma retorts, and I want to run up there and give her a high five.

  “Nothing further,” the prosecutor says.

  I stand up again. “The defense calls Dr. Moon Murano.”

  Jacob’s psychiatrist’s name may sound like that of someone who grew up on a commune, but that was her parents. She must have rebelled and joined the Young Republicans, because she’s turned up for court in a power suit, killer heels, and a bun so tight it is practically functioning as a face-lift. I walk her through her credentials and then ask her how she knows Jacob.

  “I’ve been working with him for fifteen years,” she says. “In conjunction with his Asperger’s diagnosis.”

  “Tell us a little about Asperger’s,” I say.

  “Well, the syndrome was discovered by Dr. Hans Asperger in 1944, but it wasn’t known in the English-speaking world until the late 1980s, and it wasn’t classified as a psychiatric disorder until 1994. Technically, it’s a neurobiological disorder that affects several areas of development. Unlike some other children on the autism spectrum, kids with Asperger’s are very bright and verbal and crave social acceptance … they just don’t know how to get it. Their conversations might be one-sided; they might be focused on a very narrow topic of interest; they might use repetitive language or a monotone voice. They won’t be able to read social cues or body language and therefore can’t identify the feelings of people around them. Because of this, someone with Asperger’s is often considered to be odd or eccentric, which leads to social isolation.”

  “Well, Doctor, there are a lot of folks in the world who are odd or eccentric and haven’t been diagnosed with Asperger’s, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “So how do you diagnose it?”

  “It’s theory of mind: the child who chooses privacy versus the child who can’t connect but wants to, desperately, and cannot put himself in the shoes of another child to better understand how to facilitate that.” She glances at the judge. “Asperger’s is a developmental disability, but it’s a hidden one. Unlike, for example, a mentally challenged individual, a child with Asperger’s might look normal and even sound fairly normal and appear incredibly competent, yet he will have crippling difficulties with communication and social interaction.”

  “Doctor, how often do you see Jacob?” I ask.

  “I used to see him weekly when he was younger, but now we’re down to once a month.”

  “And he’s a senior in public school?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “So he doesn’t have any educational delays due to his Asperger’s?”

  “No,” Dr. Murano says. “As a matter of fact, Jacob’s IQ is probably higher than yours, Mr. Bond.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” Helen Sharp murmurs.

  “Does Jacob have any special accommodations at school?”

  “He has an individualized education plan—an IEP—which is mandated by law for children with disabilities. Ms. Hunt and I meet with the principal and Jacob’s teachers four times a year to review strategies that will help him function well at school. What’s normal to certain high school students would set Jacob off into a tailspin.”

  “Such as?”

  “Commotion in a classroom is going to be very overwhelming for Jacob. Flashing lights. Being touched. Crumpled paper. Something that’s unexpected in terms of sensation—like darkness in preparation for a video or film—is hard for Jacob if he doesn’t know in advance that it’s going to happen,” Murano says.

  “So his accommodations are meant to keep him from becoming overstimulated?”

  “Exactly.”

  “How’s he doing in school this year?”

  “He got all A’s and one B the first semester,” Dr. Murano says.

  “Before he was incarcerated,” I ask, “when was the last time you saw Jacob?”
/>
  “Three weeks ago, for a routine visit.”

  “How was Jacob doing?”

  “Very, very well,” the psychiatrist says. “In fact, I commented to Ms. Hunt that Jacob initiated a conversation with me, instead of the other way around.”

  “And this morning?”

  “This morning, when I saw Jacob, I was appalled. I haven’t seen him in a state like this since he was three years old. You need to understand, this is something chemical in his brain, mercury poisoning of a sort, caused by vaccinations—”

  Oh crap.

  “—it’s only the diligent biomedical treatment regimen and Emma Hunt’s commitment to her son’s social interaction that’s brought Jacob to the point he was prior to incarceration. You know who really ought to be tossed in jail? The drug companies that are getting rich off the vaccinations that triggered a wave of autism in the nineties—”

  “Objection!” I yell.

  “Mr. Bond,” the judge says, “you can’t object to your own witness.”

  I smile, but it’s really a grimace. “Dr. Murano, thanks for your political opinion, but I don’t think that’s necessary right now.”

  “But it is. I’m seeing the same pattern: a sweet, interactive, social child has suddenly isolated himself, removing himself from stimuli, not interacting with people. We don’t know enough about the autistic brain to understand what it is that brings these kids back to us, and why only some of them manage to return. But we do understand that a severely traumatic incident—like incarceration—can lead to a permanent regression.”

  “Do you have any reason to believe that if Jacob was released to the care of his mother, he’d be a danger to himself or others?”

  “Absolutely not,” Dr. Murano says. “He follows rules to the letter. In fact, that’s an Asperger’s trait.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” I finish.

  Helen Sharp taps her pen on the desk in front of her. “Dr. Murano, you just referred to Jacob as a boy, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I suppose I did.”

  “Well, he’s actually eighteen years old.”

  “That’s true.”

  “He’s legally an adult,” Helen says. “He’s responsible for his actions, isn’t he?”

  “We all know there’s a chasm between legal responsibility and emotional capacity.”

  “Does Jacob have a guardian?” Helen asks.

  “No, he has a mother.”

  “Has his mother applied to be his legal guardian?”

  “No,” Dr. Murano says.

  “Have you applied to be his legal guardian?”

  “Jacob only turned eighteen a month ago.”

  The prosecutor stands up. “You said that it’s very important to have Jacob adhere to a stable routine?”

  “It’s critical,” the psychiatrist says. “Not knowing what’s happening to him right now is likely what led to this breakdown.”

  “So Jacob needs to be able to predict his schedule, in order to feel secure?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, what if I were to tell you, Doctor, that in the Southern State Correctional Facility, Jacob will rise at the same time every day, will eat his meals at the same time every day, will shower at the same time every day, will go to the library at the same time every day, and so on. Why isn’t that perfectly in line with what Jacob’s accustomed to?”

  “Because it’s not what he’s accustomed to. It is such a deviation from his ordinary daily routine, such an unplanned break, that I worry it’s irrevocably affected him.”

  Helen smirks. “But Dr. Murano, you do understand that Jacob’s been charged with the murder of his social skills counselor?”

  “I understand that,” she says, “and I find it very difficult to believe.”

  “Do you know what the evidence is against Jacob at this point?” Helen asks.

  “No.”

  “So you’re basing your assumption of his guilt or innocence on what you know of Jacob, and not on the evidence.”

  Dr. Murano raises a brow. “And you’re basing your assumption on the evidence, without ever having met Jacob.”

  Oh, snap, I think, grinning.

  “Nothing further,” Helen murmurs.

  Judge Cuttings watches Dr. Murano step off the witness stand. “Does the prosecution have any witnesses?”

  “Your Honor, we would like a continuance, given the short notice we had—”

  “If you want to make a motion to review, Ms. Sharp, that’s fine, provided we get that far,” the judge says. “I’ll hear arguments now, counselors.”

  I stand up. “Judge, we want that competency hearing, and you can review the bail again after it’s completed. But at this point, I have a young man who’s deteriorating psychologically by the minute. I ask you to put limitations on him, on his mom, on his psychiatrist, even on me. You want him to come in here every day and check in with you? Great, I’ll bring him. Jacob Hunt has a constitutional right to bail, but he also has human rights, Your Honor. If he’s kept in jail much longer, I think it’s going to destroy him. I’m asking—no, I’m begging—you to set bail in a reasonable amount and release my client until after the competency hearing.”

  Helen looks at me and rolls her eyes. “Judge, Jacob Hunt has been charged with the first-degree murder of a young woman he knew and supposedly liked. She was his teacher, they spent leisure time together, and the facts surrounding this crime—without getting into details—include incriminating statements the defendant made to the police and strong forensic evidence linking him to the crime scene. We believe this is a very, very strong case for the State. If the defendant is doing this poorly even before his bail hearing, Judge, you can imagine how much incentive he’ll have to flee the jurisdiction if you let him out now. The victim’s parents are already devastated by the loss of their daughter and they’re terrified that this young man, who’s been exhibiting violent behavior inside a jail cell and who doesn’t know right from wrong, might be released. We ask that no bail be considered until after the competency hearing.”

  The judge looks into the gallery at Emma. “Ms. Hunt,” he says. “Do you have any other children?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. I have a fifteen-year-old son.”

  “I assume he requires attention, not to mention food and carpooling.”

  “Yes.”

  “You do understand that if the defendant were released into your custody, you’d have to be responsible for him twenty-four hours a day, and that this could significantly affect your own freedom of movement, as well as your responsibilities to your younger son?”

  “I will do anything I have to do in order to get Jacob home,” Emma says.

  Judge Cuttings takes off his reading glasses. “Mr. Bond, I am going to release your client on certain conditions. First, his mother will have to post the family home as surety on bail. Second, I’m going to require that the defendant be on home electronic monitoring, that he not attend school, that he stay in the house at all times, and that either his mother or another adult over the age of twenty-five be with him at all times. He is not allowed to leave the state. He’ll have to sign a waiver of extradition, and he is required to see Dr. Murano and follow all her directives, including taking medication. Finally, he will comply with the competency evaluation when it is scheduled, and you will get in touch with the prosecutor to determine when and where that might take place. The prosecution does not need to file a motion; I am going to set this case down for review on the day the competency evaluation comes back.”

  Helen packs herself up. “Enjoy your reprieve,” she tells me. “This one’s a slam dunk for my side.”

  “Only because you’re a giant,” I mutter.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said you haven’t met my client.”

  She narrows her eyes and stalks out of the courtroom.

  Behind me, Emma is locked in an embrace with Moon Murano. She looks up at me. “Thank you so much,” she says, her voice breaking like wave
s over the syllables.

  I shrug, as if I do this all the time. In reality, I’ve sweated through my dress shirt. “Anytime,” I reply.

  I lead Emma to the clerk’s office to fill out paperwork and pick up the sheets that Jacob has to sign. “I’ll meet you in the lobby,” I say.

  Although Jacob was not in court, he had to be here while we deliberated on his behalf. And now, he needs to sign the conditions of his release and the waiver of extradition.

  I haven’t seen him yet. In all honesty, I’m a little scared to do so. The testimony from his mother, and from Moon Murano, made him out to be a vegetable.

  When I approach the holding cell, he’s lying on the floor, knees curled to his chest. On his head, he’s sporting a bandage. The skin around his eyes is black and blue, and his hair is matted.

  Christ, if I’d had him in the courtroom, he would have gotten out of jail in ten seconds flat. “Jacob,” I say quietly. “Jacob, it’s me, Oliver. Your lawyer.”

  He doesn’t move. His eyes are wide open, but they don’t flicker as I come closer. I motion for the deputy to open the door of the cell and squat down beside him. “I have some papers I need you to sign,” I tell him.

  He whispers something, and I lean in.

  “One?” I repeat. “Actually, it’s several. But hey, you don’t have to go back to jail, buddy. That’s the good news.”

  For now, anyway.

  Jacob wheezes. It sounds like one, two, three, five.

  “You’re counting. You’re down for the count?” I stare at him. This is like playing charades with someone who has no arms and no legs.

  “Ate,” Jacob says, loud and clear.

  He’s hungry. Or was hungry?

  “Jacob.” My voice is firmer. “Come on already.” I start to reach for him but see his whole body tense an inch before my hand makes contact.

  So I back off. I sit down on the floor beside him.

  “One,” I say.

  His eyelids blink once.

  “Two.”

  He blinks three times.

  That’s when I realize that we’re having a conversation. We’re just not using words.