by Jodi Picoult
“I wouldn’t exactly—”
“Does that make Theo insane, too?”
It’s 4:32 it’s 4:32 it’s 4:32.
“Can we please leave now?” I say, but the words are as loose as molasses and they don’t sound right; and everyone is moving slowly and slurring their words, too, when I stand up to get their attention.
“Mr. Bond, control your client,” I hear, and Oliver grabs my arm and yanks me off my feet.
The prosecutor’s lips pull back from her teeth like a smile, but it’s not a smile. “Ms. Hunt, you were the one who contacted the police when you saw Jacob’s quilt on the news broadcast, isn’t that true?”
“Yes,” my mother whispers.
“You did it because you believed your son had killed Jess Ogilvy, didn’t you?”
She shakes her head (4:34) and doesn’t answer.
“Ms. Hunt, you thought your own son had committed murder, isn’t that true?” the lawyer says with a voice that’s a hammer.
Ms. Hunt
(4:35)
Answer the
(no)
question.
Suddenly the room goes still, like the air between the beats of a bird’s wings, and I can hear everything rewinding in my head.
Control your client.
You look crazy.
The hardest thing to hear is the truth.
I stare at my mother, right into her eyes, and feel the fingernails on the chalkboard of my brain and belly. I can see the chambers of her heart, and the ruby cells of her blood, and the twisting winds of her thoughts.
Oh, Jacob, I hear, instant replay. What did you do?
I know what she is going to say a minute before she says it, and I can’t let her do that.
Then I remember the prosecutor’s words: The only person who knows how Jacob felt is Jacob.
“Stop,” I yell as loud as I can.
“Judge,” Oliver says, “I think we need to adjourn for the day—”
I get to my feet again. “Stop!”
My mother comes out of her seat on the witness stand. “Jacob, it’s okay—”
“Your Honor, the witness has not answered the question—”
I cover my ears with my hands because they are all so loud and the words are bouncing off the walls and the floor and I stand on my chair and then on the table and finally I jump right into the middle of the space in front of the judge, where my mother is already reaching for me.
But before I can touch her I am on the floor and the bailiff has his knee in my back and the judge and jury are scrambling and suddenly there is quiet and calm and no more weight and a voice I know.
“You’re okay, buddy,” Detective Matson says. He reaches out a hand, and he helps me to my feet.
Once at a fair, Theo and I went into a hall of mirrors. We got separated, or maybe Theo just left me behind, but I found myself walking into walls and looking around corners that didn’t really exist, and finally, I sat down on the floor and closed my eyes. That’s what I want to do now, with everyone staring at me. Just like then, there’s no way out that I can foresee.
“You’re okay,” Detective Matson repeats, and he leads the way.
Rich
Most of the time if a town cop comes into the sheriff’s domain, a pissing contest ensues: they don’t want me telling them how to run their outfit any more than I want them screwing up one of my crime scenes. But with Jacob on the loose in the courtroom, they probably would have welcomed the National Guard’s help if it had been available, and when I hop over the bar and grab Jacob, everyone else steps away and lets me, as if I actually know what I am doing.
His head is bobbing up and down as if he is having a conversation with himself, and one of his hands makes a weird stretching motion against his leg, but at least he isn’t yelling anymore.
I walk Jacob into a holding cell. He turns away from me, shoulders pressed to the bars.
“You okay?” I ask, but he doesn’t answer.
I lean against the bars from the outside of the cell, so that we are practically back-to-back. “There was a guy once who killed himself in a holding cell in Swanton,” I say, as if this is ordinary conversation. “The officers booked him and left him there to sleep off a good drunk. He was standing like you, but with his arms crossed. Wearing a flannel shirt, button-down. Security camera on him the whole time. You probably can’t guess how he did it.”
At first, Jacob doesn’t answer. Then he turns his head slightly. “He made a noose by tying the arms of the shirt around his neck,” he answers. “So it looked like he was standing up against the bars on the security camera, but actually, he’d already hanged himself.”
A laugh barks out of me. “Goddammit, kid. You’re really good.”
Jacob pivots so that he is facing me. “I shouldn’t be talking to you.”
“Probably not.”
I stare at him. “Why did you leave the quilt? You know better than that.”
He hesitates. “Of course I left the quilt. How else would anyone know that I was the one who set this all up? You still missed the tea bag.”
Immediately I know he is talking about the evidence at Jess Ogilvy’s house. “It was in the sink. We didn’t get any prints off the mug.”
“Jess was allergic to mango,” Jacob says. “And me, I hate the taste.”
He had been too thorough. Rather than forgetting to erase this evidence, he’d left it on purpose, as a test. I stare at Jacob, wondering what he is trying to tell me.
“But other than that,” he says, smiling, “you got it right.”
Oliver
Helen and I stand in front of Judge Cuttings like recalcitrant schoolchildren. “I don’t ever want to see that happen again, Mr. Bond,” he says. “I don’t care if you have to medicate him. Either you keep your client under control for the remainder of this trial or I’m going to have him handcuffed.”
“Your Honor,” Helen says. “How is the State supposed to have a fair trial when we have a circus sideshow going on every fifteen minutes?”
“You know she’s right, Counselor,” the judge replies.
“I’m going to ask for a mistrial, Your Honor,” I say.
“You can’t when it’s your client causing the problems, Mr. Bond. Surely you know that.”
“Right,” I mutter.
“If there are any motions you two want to make, think hard before you make them. Mr. Bond, I will hear you with warning before we start.”
I hurry out of chambers before Helen can say anything that infuriates me even more. And then, just when I think things can’t get any worse, I find Rich Matson chatting up my client. “I was just keeping him company until you got here,” Matson explains.
“Yeah, I bet.”
He ignores me, turning to Jacob instead. “Hey,” the detective says. “Good luck.”
I wait until I can’t hear his footsteps anymore. “What the hell was that all about?”
“Nothing. We were talking about cases.”
“Oh great. Because that was such a good idea the last time you two sat down for a chat.” I fold my arms. “Listen, Jacob, you need to straighten out. If you don’t behave, you’re going to jail. Period.”
“If I don’t behave?” he says. “Schwing!”
“You can’t possibly be old enough to remember Wayne’s World. And regardless, I’m not the one who’s the defendant. I’m totally serious, Jacob. If you pull another stunt like that, the prosecution is going to throw your ass in jail or else declare a mistrial, and that means doing this all over again.”
“You promised that we’d adjourn at four o’clock.”
“You’re right. But in a courtroom the judge is God, and God wanted to stay late. So I don’t care if we’re here till four in the morning, or if Judge Cuttings announces that we’re all going to get up and do the hokey pokey. You are going to park your butt in that chair next to me and not say a damn thing.”
“Will you tell the jury why I did it?” Jacob asks.
&n
bsp; “Why did you do it?”
I know better than to ask that. But at this point I am not thinking of perjury. I am thinking that Jacob and I need to be on the same page once and for all.
“Because I couldn’t leave her,” he says, as if this should be obvious.
My jaw drops. Before I can ask another question—Did she spurn you? Did you try to kiss her, and did she struggle too much? Did you hold her too close, and suffocate her accidentally?—a bailiff comes into the holding cell area. “They’re ready for you.”
I motion to the bailiff to open the cell. We are the last ones into the courtroom, with the exception of the judge and jury. Emma’s eyes go straight to her son. “Is everything okay?”
But before I can fill her in, the jury files in and the judge returns. “Counsel,” he says, settling himself on the bench. “Approach.” Helen and I move closer. “Mr. Bond, have you spoken with your client?”
“Yes, Your Honor, and there will be no further outbursts.”
“I can hardly contain myself,” Judge Cuttings says. “You may continue, then.”
Knowing what I know now, that insanity defense is looking stronger and stronger. I just hope the jury got that message, loud and clear. “The defense rests,” I announce.
“What?” Jacob explodes behind me. “No it doesn’t!”
I close my eyes and start to count to ten, because I’m pretty sure it’s not a good idea to kill your client in front of an entire jury, and then a paper airplane sails over my shoulder. It’s one of Jacob’s notes, which I unfold:
I WANT TO TALK.
I turn around. “Absolutely not.”
“Is there a problem, Mr. Bond?” the judge asks.
“No, Your Honor,” I reply, at the same moment Jacob says “Yes.”
Scrambling, I face the judge again. “We need a sensory break.”
“We’ve been in session for ten seconds!” Helen argues.
“Do you rest, Mr. Bond?” asks Judge Cuttings. “Or is there more?”
“There’s more,” Jacob says. “It’s my turn to talk. And if I want to take the stand, you have to let me.”
“You’re not taking the stand,” Emma insists.
“You, Ms. Hunt, do not have leave to speak! Am I the only person here who knows we’re in a court of law?” Judge Cuttings roars. “Mr. Bond, put on your final witness.”
“I’d like a brief recess—”
“I bet you would. I’d like to be in Nevis instead of here, but neither one of us is going to get what we want,” the judge snaps.
Shaking my head, I walk Jacob to the witness stand. I am so angry I can barely see straight. Jacob will tell the jury the truth, like he’s told me, and dig his own grave. If not with the substance of what he says then with the style: no matter what’s been said up to this point, no matter what’s been said by the witnesses, all the jury is going to remember is this awkward boy who speaks in bursts of words and fidgets and doesn’t register appropriate emotion and can’t look them in the eye—all traditional expressions of guilt. It doesn’t matter what Jacob says; his demeanor will convict him before he even opens his mouth.
I open the gate for him so that he can step inside. “It’s your funeral,” I murmur.
“No,” Jacob says. “It’s my trial.”
I can tell the moment he realizes that this wasn’t such a great idea. He’s been sworn in, and he swallows hard. His eyes are wide and dart all over the courtroom.
“Tell me what happens when you get nervous, Jacob,” I say.
He licks his lips. “I walk on my toes, or bounce. Sometimes I flap or talk too fast or laugh even though it’s not funny.”
“Are you nervous now?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He pulls his lips back in a smile. “Because everyone’s looking at me.”
“Is that all?”
“Also the lights are too bright. And I don’t know what you’re going to say next.”
Whose goddamn fault is that? I think. “Jacob, you told the court that you wanted to talk.”
“Yes.”
“What do you want to tell this jury?”
Jacob hesitates. “The truth,” he says.
Jacob
There’s blood all over the floor and she is lying in it. She doesn’t answer even though I call her name. I know I need to move her so I lift her up and take her into the hallway and when I do there is even more blood that comes from her nose and her mouth. I try not to think about the fact that I am touching her body and she is naked; it isn’t like in the movies where the girl is beautiful and the boy is backlit; it’s just skin against skin and I am embarrassed for her because she doesn’t even know she isn’t wearing clothes. I don’t want to get blood on the towels so I wipe her face with toilet paper and flush it.
There is underwear on the floor and a bra and sweatpants and a shirt. I put the bra on first and I know how because I watch HBO and have seen them being taken off; all I have to do is reverse it. The underwear I don’t understand because there is writing on one side and I don’t know if it’s the front or the back, so I just put it on her any which way. Then the shirt and the sweatpants and finally socks and Ugg boots, which are the hardest because she cannot press down with her feet.
I pick her up over my shoulder—she is heavier than I thought she would be—and try to get her down the stairs. There is a turn on the landing and I trip over my feet and we both fall. I land on top of her and when I roll her over her tooth is knocked out. I know it didn’t hurt her but it still makes me feel like I am going to be sick. The bruises and the broken nose for some reason weren’t nearly as bad as seeing her with that missing front tooth.
I sit her up in an armchair. Wait here, I say, and then I laugh out loud because she can’t hear me. Upstairs I mop up the blood with more toilet paper, the whole roll. It is still smeary and wet. In the laundry closet I find bleach and I pour it on the floor and use another roll of toilet paper to dry it all off.
It does cross my mind that I might get caught, and that is when I decide not just to clean up but to make a crime scene that leads in a different direction. I pack a bag of extra clothes and take her toothbrush. I type a note and stick it in the mailbox. I put on a pair of boots too big to be hers and walk around outside, cut the screen, put the kitchen knife in the dishwasher, and turn on the quick cycle. I want to be obvious, because Mark is not too smart.
I make sure to wipe away the footprints on the porch and the driveway.
Inside, I put the backpack on my shoulders and make sure I am not forgetting anything. I know I should leave the stools knocked over and the CDs scattered on the living room floor but I just can’t. So I pick up the stools and the mail and then I organize the CDs the way I think she would have liked them.
I try to carry her into the woods but she gets heavier with every step so instead after a while I have to drag her. I want her to be somewhere where I know she won’t have to sit in wind or rain or snow. I like the culvert because I can get to it from the highway, instead of going past her house.
I think about her even when I’m not here; even when I know the police are all looking and I could so easily be distracted by tracking their progress or lack thereof. That’s why when I come back to visit I bring my quilt. It was something I always liked and I think if she could talk she would have been really proud of me for wrapping her in it. Good job, Jacob, she would have said. You’re thinking of someone else for a change.
Little did she know, that was all I was thinking about.
When I’m done the courtroom is so quiet I can hear the pop and hiss of the radiator and the building stretching its beams. I look at Oliver, and at my mother. I expect them to be pretty pleased, because everything should make sense now. I can’t read their faces, though, or the faces of the jury. One woman is crying; and I don’t know if she’s sad because I was talking about Jess or because she’s happy to finally know what really happened.
I’m not nervous now. If you
want to know, I’ve got so much adrenaline in my bloodstream I could probably run to Bennington and back. I mean, holy cow, I have just outlined how I set up a crime scene with a dead body after successfully fooling the police into believing it was a kidnapping attempt. I have connected all the dots that the State raised as evidence in this trial. It is like the best episode of CrimeBusters ever, and I am the star.
“Mr. Bond?” the judge prompts.
Oliver clears his throat. He rests one hand on the railing of the witness stand, looking away from me. “All right, Jacob. You told us a lot about what you did after Jess’s death. But you haven’t told us about how she died.”
“There isn’t much to tell,” I say.
Suddenly, I realize where I’ve seen that expression on everyone’s face in this courtroom. It’s the one on Mimi Scheck’s face, and Mark Maguire’s face, and everyone else who thinks that they have absolutely nothing in common with me.
I start to get that burning sensation in my stomach, the one that comes when I realize too late I might have done something that actually wasn’t such a great idea.
And then, Oliver throws me a lifeline. “Jacob, are you sorry for killing Jess?”
I smile widely. “No,” I say. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along.”
Oliver
Here’s the bittersweet thing: Jacob has made himself look more insane than I ever could with a witness’s testimony. Then again, he’s also made himself look like a ruthless murderer.
Jacob is once again sitting at the defense table, holding his mother’s hand. Emma is white as a sheet, and I can’t blame her. After listening to Jacob’s testimony—a detailed description in his own words of how to clean up after a mess of your own making—I find myself in the same position.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I begin, “there’s been a lot of evidence produced here about how Jess Ogilvy died. We’re not disputing that evidence. But if you’ve been paying attention at this trial, you also know that you can’t judge this book by its cover. Jacob is a young man with Asperger’s syndrome, a neurological disorder that precludes him from having empathy for others in the same way you or I might. When he talks about what he did with Jess’s body, and at Jess’s residence, he doesn’t see his involvement in a horrific murder. Instead, as you’ve heard, he takes pride in the fact that he set up a complete crime scene, a crime scene worthy of inclusion in a journal, just like an episode of CrimeBusters. I’m not going to ask you to excuse him for Jess Ogilvy’s death—we grieve with her parents for that loss, and do not seek to diminish the tragedy in any way. However, I am going to ask you to take the information you’ve been given about Jacob and his disorder, so that when you question whether he was criminally responsible at the time of Jess’s death—whether he understood right from wrong in that moment the way you understand right from wrong—you will have no choice but to answer no.”