by Jodi Picoult
She glances down at my hamburger, untouched. “Maybe you can get a side of manners with that,” she says, and twitches back to the stage.
When she’s gone, the weight of Patrick’s eyes rests heavy on me. “What?” I demand.
“Nothing.”
“Clearly, there’s something.”
He takes a deep breath, lets it out. “You may not ever forgive Szyszynski, Nina, but you won’t be able to move past this . . . to help Nathaniel move past this . . . until you stop cursing him.”
I drain the rest of my liquor. “I will curse him, Patrick, until the day he dies.”
A new singer fills in the space that has fallen between the two of us. A heavyweight woman with hair that touches her ass, she sways her considerable hips as the riff begins playing on the karaoke machine.
It only takes a minute . . .
For your life to move on past . . .
“What is she doing up there?” I murmur.
“Yeah . . . she’s actually good.”
We both look away from the stage, and our eyes meet. “Nina,” Patrick says, “you’re not the only one hurting. When I see you like this . . . well, it kills me.” He looks down at his drink, stirs it once. “I wish—”
“I wish too. But I could wish till the world stops turning, and it wouldn’t change a thing, Patrick.”
History was once today . . .
Before the moment got away . . . .
Nice guys, baby, always finish last.
Patrick laces his fingers with mine on the table. He looks at me, hard, as if he is going to be quizzed on the details of my face. Then, with what seems to be a great effort, he turns away. “The truth is there shouldn’t be any justice for motherfuckers like him. People like that, they ought to be shot.”
Clasped together, our hands look like a heart. Patrick squeezes, I squeeze back. It is all the communication we need, this pulse between us, my reply.
• • •
The most pressing issue the next morning involves what we are supposed to do with Nathaniel. It hasn’t occurred to either Caleb or myself before this; only when the courthouse looms into view do I realize that Nathaniel cannot be at this arraignment . . . and cannot be left alone. In the hallway, he stands between us, holding both of our hands—a living bridge.
“I could sit with him in the lobby,” Caleb volunteers, but I immediately reject that solution. Caleb looks down at Nathaniel. “Don’t you have a secretary who could watch him for a while?”
“This isn’t my district,” I point out. “And I’m not leaving him with someone I don’t know.”
Of course not, never again. Although, as it turns out, it is not the strangers we have to be wary of.
We are leaning hard against this impasse when a guardian angel arrives. Nathaniel sees her first, and tears down the hallway. “Monica!” he shrieks, and she lifts him into the air, swinging him around.
“That is the most fabulous word I’ve ever heard,” Monica laughs.
Nathaniel beams. “I can talk now.”
“That’s what Dr. Robichaud told me. She said she can’t get a word in edgewise anymore when you come to her office.” She switches Nathaniel onto her other hip and turns to us. “How are you holding up?”
As if there is an answer to that question, today.
“Well,” Monica says, as if we’ve responded. “We’re just going to head down to the playroom near the family court. Sound good, Nathaniel?” She raises her brows. “Or do you have alternate plans for him?”
“No . . . not at all,” I murmur.
“That’s what I figured. Child care this morning . . . it probably wasn’t your top priority.”
Caleb touches Nathaniel’s golden hair. “Be good,” he says, and kisses his cheek.
“He’s always good.” Monica sets him on his feet, and begins to lead him away. “Nina, you know where to find us when you’re done.”
I watch them walk for a moment. Two weeks ago I could not stand Monica LaFlamme; now I am indebted to her. “Monica,” I call out, and she turns. “Why don’t you have children?”
Shrugging, she smiles faintly. “To date, no one’s asked me.”
Our eyes meet, and that is all it takes to erase the history between us. “Their loss,” I say, and I smile.
• • •
Thomas LaCroix is two inches shorter than I am, and going bald. It makes no difference whatsoever, of course, but I find myself shooting glances at Wally during this meeting, wondering why he could not find the most perfect specimen of a prosecutor, one polished on the outside as well as the inside, so that no jury could possibly find fault.
“We’re turning this entirely over to Tom,” my boss says. “You know we support you and Caleb, we’re a hundred percent behind you . . . but we don’t want there to be any problems on appeal. And if we’re in the courtroom, it might look like we’re stacking the decks against this guy.”
“I understand, Wally,” I say. “No offense taken.”
“Well!” Wally stands, having done his job here for the day. “We’ll all be waiting to hear what transpires.”
He pats my shoulder as he exits. When he leaves, it is just the three of us left—Caleb, myself, and Thomas LaCroix. Like a good prosecutor—like me—he jumps right into business. “They’re not going to arraign him until after lunch because of all the publicity,” Tom says. “Did you see the media when you came in?”
See it? We had to run the gauntlet. If I hadn’t known a service entrance into the court, I never would have gotten Nathaniel inside.
“Anyway, I’ve already talked to the bailiffs. They’re going to clear the other prisoners off the docket before they bring in Szyszynski.” He checks his watch. “We’re scheduled for one o’clock right now, so you’ve got some time.”
I flatten my hands on the table. “You will not be putting my son on the stand,” I announce.
“Nina, you know this is just an arraignment. A rubber stamp process. Let’s just—”
“I want you to know this, and to know it now. Nathaniel isn’t going to be testifying.”
He sighs. “I’ve done this for fifteen years. And we’re just going to have to see what comes to pass. Right now, you know better than I do what the evidence is. You certainly know better than I do how Nathaniel is faring. But you also know there are some pieces of the puzzle we’re waiting on—like the lab reports, and your son’s recovery. Six months from now, a year from now . . . Nathaniel might be doing a whole lot better, and taking the stand might not be as much of a hardship.”
“He is five years old. In those fifteen years, Tom, how many cases with a five-year-old witness ended up with a perp in jail for life?”
Not a single one, and he knows it. “Then we’ll wait,” Tom says. “We have some time, and the defendant is going to want time too, you know that.”
“You can’t hold him in jail forever.”
“I’m going to ask for $150,000 bail. And I doubt the Catholic Church will post it for him.” He smiles at me. “He’s not going anywhere, Nina.”
I feel Caleb’s hand steal into my lap, and I grab onto it. I think he is supporting me, at first, but then he squeezes my fingers nearly to the point of pain. “Nina,” he says pleasantly, “maybe we should just let Mr. LaCroix do his job right now.”
“It’s my job too,” I point out. “I put children on the stand every day, and I watch them fall apart, and then I watch the abusers walk. How can you ask me to forget that, when we’re talking about Nathaniel?”
“Exactly—we’re talking about Nathaniel. And today he needs a mother more than he needs a mother who is a prosecutor. We need to look at this in steps, and today that step is keeping Szyszynski locked up,” Tom says. “Let’s just focus, and once we clear this hurdle, we can decide what to do next.”
I stare into my lap, where I’ve nervously pleated my skirt into a thousand wrinkles. “I know what you’re saying.”
“Good, then.”
Lifting my gaze, I
smile slightly. “You’re saying the same thing I do, to victims, when I really don’t know if I have any chance of securing a conviction.”
To his credit, Tom nods. “You’re right. But I’m not trying to con you. We never know which cases are going to work out, which cases are going to take a plea, which kids will make a turnaround, which kids will heal to the point where a year from now, they’re able to contribute in a way they can’t that first day.”
I get to my feet. “But you said it yourself, Tom. Today I’m not supposed to give a damn about those other kids. Today I just care about my own.” I walk to the door before Caleb even has risen from his seat. “One o’clock,” I say, and it is a warning.
• • •
Caleb doesn’t catch up to her until they are in the lobby, and then, he has to pull her aside to a small nook, where reporters will not find them. “What was that all about?”
“I’m protecting Nathaniel.” Nina crosses her arms, daring him to say otherwise.
She seems shaky and unsteady, not at all herself. Maybe it is just the truth of this day. God knows, Caleb isn’t faring all that well either. “We ought to go tell Monica that there’s a delay.”
But Nina is busy putting on her coat. “Can you do it?” she asks. “I need to run to the office.”
“Now?” Alfred, and the superior court building, is only fifteen minutes away. But still.
“It’s something I have to give to Thomas,” she explains.
Caleb shrugs. He watches Nina walk out the front steps. The flashes of several cameras strike her like bullets, freezing her in time as she jogs down the steps. Caleb sees her brush off a reporter with no more effort than she would use to wave away a fly.
He wants to run after her, hold Nina until that wall around her cracks and all the pain spills out. He wants to tell her that she doesn’t have to be so strong around him, because they are in this together. He wants to take her downstairs to the bright room with alphabet squares on the floor, sit with their son between them. All she has to do is take off those focused blinders; then she will see that she isn’t alone.
Caleb goes so far as to open the glass door, to stick his head outside. By now she is a dot, far across the parking lot. Her name hovers on his lips, but then there is an explosion that blinds him—a newspaper photographer, again. Backing inside, he tries to shake the double vision, but it is a long time before he can see clearly; and so he never witnesses Nina’s car leaving the courthouse lot, turning in the opposite direction of her office.
• • •
I’m late.
I hurry through the front door of the court, around the line of people waiting to go through the metal detector. “Hey, Mike,” I say breathlessly, slipping behind the familiar bailiff, who just nods. Our courtroom is to the left; I open the double doors and walk inside.
It is filled with reporters and cameramen, all lined up in the back rows like the bad kids on the rear seats of a bus. This is a big story for York County, Maine. This is a big story for any place.
I walk to the front, where Patrick and Caleb are sitting. They have left a seat on the aisle for me. For a moment I fight my natural inclination—to continue through the gate, and sit at the prosecutor’s table with Thomas LaCroix. That is why we “pass the bar”—we are allowed, by virtue of that test, to work in the front of the courtroom.
I don’t know the defense attorney. Probably someone from Portland. Someone the diocese keeps on retainer for things like this. There is a cameraman set up to the right of the defense table, his head bent close to the machine in preparation.
Patrick notices me first. “Hey,” he says. “You all right?”
As I expect, Caleb is angry. “Where have you been? I’ve tried—”
Whatever he is about to say is interrupted as a bailiff speaks. “The Honorable Judge Jeremiah Bartlett presiding.”
The judge, of course, I know. He signed the restraining order against Caleb. He instructs us to sit down, and I try, but my body has gone stiff as a board and the seat does not fit me. My eyes take in everything and nothing all at once.
“Are we set for the arraignment on State v. Szyszynski?” the judge asks.
Thomas rises smoothly. “Yes, Your Honor.”
At the defense table, the other attorney stands. “I’m representing Father Szyszynski, and we’re ready, Your Honor.”
I have seen this a thousand times before; one bailiff moves forward toward the bench. He does this to protect the judge. After all, the people brought in as defendants are criminals. Anything could happen.
The door to the holding cell opens, and the priest is led out. His hands are cuffed in front of him. Beside me, I feel Caleb forget to take his next breath. I hold my purse on my lap, a death grip.
The second bailiff leads the priest to the defense table, the inside seat, because he will have to stand up in front of the judge to enter his plea. He is close enough, now, that I could spit at him. I could whisper, and he might hear me.
I tell myself to be patient.
My eyes go to the judge, then to the bailiffs. They are the ones I am worried about. They stand behind the priest, make sure he sits down.
Move back. Move back move back move back.
I slide my hand into my purse, past the familiar, to the heat that leaps into my hand. The bailiff takes a step away—this defendant, scum of the earth, still has the right to privacy with his own attorney. There are words moving around the courtroom like small insects, distractions I do not really notice.
The minute I stand up, I’ve jumped off the cliff. The world goes by in a haze of color and light; my weight accelerates, head-over-heels. Then I think, Falling is the first step in learning how to fly.
In two steps, I am across the aisle of the courtroom. In a breath, I hold the gun up to the priest’s head. I pull the trigger four times.
The bailiff grabs my arm but I won’t let go of the weapon. I can’t, until I know that I’ve done it. There is blood spreading, and screams, and then I’m falling again, forward, past the bar, where I am supposed to be. “Did I get him? Is he dead?”
They slam me onto the ground, and when I open my eyes, I can see him. The priest lies with half his head missing, just a few feet away.
I let go of the gun.
The weight on me takes familiar shape, and then I hear Patrick in my ear. “Nina, stop. Stop fighting.” His voice brings me back. I see the defense attorney, hiding under the stenographer’s table. The press, their cameras flashing like a field of fireflies. The judge, pushing the panic button on his desk and yelling to clear the courtroom. And Caleb, white as snow, wondering who I am.
“Who’s got cuffs?” Patrick asks. A bailiff hands him a pair from his belt, and Patrick secures my hands behind me. He lifts me up and bustles me toward the same door through which the priest entered. Patrick’s body is unyielding, his chin firm against my ear. “Nina,” he whispers to me. “What did you do?”
Once, not long ago, standing in my own home, I had asked Patrick this same question. Now I give his own answer back to him. “I did what I had to,” I say, and I let myself believe it.
II
To be once in doubt
Is once to be resolv’d.
—Shakespeare, Othello
Summer camp is a place that hums with crickets and is so green it sometimes hurts my eyes to look.
I’m afraid to be here, because it is outside, and because outside there are bees. Bees make my stomach feel like a fist, even seeing one makes me want to run and hide. In my nightmares I picture them sucking my blood like it is honey.
My mother tells the camp counselors I’m afraid of bees. They say that in all the years of camp, not a single child has been stung.
I think, Someone has to be first.
One morning, my counselor—a girl with a macramé necklace that she wears even during swim time—takes us into the woods on a hike. It’s time for a circle, she says. She moves one log, to make a bench. She moves a second log, and ther
e are all the yellow jackets.
I freeze. The bees cover the counselor’s face and arms and belly. She tries to bat them away while she’s screaming. I throw myself at her. I slap my hands on her skin. I save her, even while I am being stung and stung.
At the end of camp that summer, the counselors give out awards. They are blue ribbons, each one, printed with fat black letters. Mine says Bravest Boy.
I still have it.
FOUR
In the moments after, Patrick wonders how he could know that Nina’s favorite number is 13, that the scar on her chin came from a sledding crash, that she wished for a pet alligator for three Christmases straight—yet not know that inside her, all this time, was a grenade waiting to explode. “I did what I had to,” she murmurs, all the way across the slick and bloodied court.
In his arms, she trembles. She feels light as a cloud. Patrick’s head whirls. Nina still smells of apples, her shampoo; she still can’t walk a straight line—but she is babbling incoherently, not at all in control the way Patrick is accustomed to seeing her. As they cross the threshold into the holding cell, Patrick looks behind him into the courtroom. Pandemonium. He’s always thought that word sounds like a circus, but here it is now. Brain matter covers the front of the defense attorney’s suit. A litter of paper and pocketbooks covers the gallery, as some reporters sob, and others direct their cameramen to film. Caleb stands still as a statue. Bobby, one of the bailiffs, is talking into the radio at his shoulder: “Yeah, shots were fired, and we need an ambulance.” Roanoke, the other bailiff, hustles a white-faced Judge Bartlett into chambers. “Clear the court!” the judge yells, and Roanoke answers: “But we can’t, Your Honor. They’re all witnesses.”
On the floor, being completely ignored, is the body of Father Szyszynski.
Killing him was the right thing, Patrick thinks before he can stop himself. And then immediately afterward: Oh, God, what has she done?
“Patrick,” Nina murmurs.
He cannot look at her. “Don’t speak to me.” He will be a witness at—Christ—Nina’s murder trial. Whatever she tells him, he will have to tell a court.