by Jodi Picoult
It didn’t take him long to realize his tactical error, as the jury watched Nina become hysterical. But all the same, he is the last person Caleb expects to see out here.
“I just wanted to tell you,” Brown says now, “if there’s anything I can do . . .”
He lets his sentence trail off. “You can do something, all right,” Caleb replies. Both men know what it is; know it has nothing to do with Nathaniel.
The prosecutor nods and walks inside. Caleb gets down on his knees again. He begins to move in a spiral around the court building, like the way he lays stone in a round patio—widening his circles so that he leaves out no space and maintains the arc of the ring. He does this as he does everything—slowly and tenaciously—until he is certain that he’s seeing the world through the eyes of his son.
• • •
On the other side of the highway is a steep hill that Nathaniel slides down on his bottom. His pants snag on a branch and rip and it doesn’t matter, because no one will punish him. He steps in melting puddles of icy water and through the ragged seam of the treeline, where he walks until he stumbles over a piece of the forest that has been left out by mistake.
It is the size of his bed at home and has been flattened by the tracks of animals. Nathaniel sits down on a log at the edge and pulls his pillowcase out from inside his coat. He takes out his granola bar and eats halfway, then decides to save the rest. He turns on his flashlight and holds it up to his palm so that the back of his hand glows red.
When the deer come, Nathaniel holds his breath. He remembers what his father told him—they are more afraid of us than we are afraid of them. The big one, a doe, has a coat the color of caramels and tiny high-heeled hoofs. Her baby looks the same, with white spots on her back, as if she has not been colored in the whole way. They bend their long throats to the ground, pushing through the snow with their noses.
It is the mother deer who finds the grass. Just a tuft, hardly a bite. But instead of eating it she shoves the fawn closer. She watches the baby eat, although it means she herself will get nothing.
It makes Nathaniel want to give her the other half of his granola bar.
But the minute he reaches into his pillowcase the heads of the deer jerk up, and they leap from all four feet, their tails white sails as they disappear farther into the woods.
Nathaniel examines the rip on the back of his pants; the muddy tops of his boots. He places the half of the granola bar on the log, in case the deer come back. Then he gets up and slowly heads back toward the road.
• • •
Patrick has canvassed a one-mile square around the courthouse, certain that Nathaniel left of his own free will, and even more certain that the kid couldn’t have gotten much farther. He picks up his radio to place a call to the Alfred dispatch, asking if anyone’s found anything yet, when a movement at the side of the road strikes his eye. As he watches, a quarter mile up the road, Nathaniel crawls over the iron horse of the guardrail and starts walking along the shoulder of the highway.
“I’ll be damned,” Patrick breathes, pulling his truck forward slightly. It looks like Nathaniel knows exactly where he is going; from this spot, even someone as small as Weed would be able to see the high roof of the courthouse. But the boy can’t see what Patrick can, from the high cab of his truck—Caleb, coming closer on the opposite side of the road.
He watches Nathaniel look right and then left, and Patrick realizes what he is planning to do. Sticking his flashing magnetic light on the roof of the truck, Patrick hurriedly swerves to block traffic. He gets out and clears the way, so that by the time Nathaniel sees his father waiting, he can run across the highway and into Caleb’s arms safely.
• • •
“Don’t do that again,” I say into Nathaniel’s soft neck, holding him close to me. “Ever. Do you hear me?”
He pulls back, puts his palms on my cheeks. “Are you mad at me?”
“No. Yes. I will be, anyway, when I’m done being so happy.” I hug him tighter. “What were you thinking?”
“That I’m bad,” he says flatly.
Over Nathaniel’s head, I meet Caleb’s eyes. “No you’re not, sweetheart. Running away, that wasn’t good. You could have been hurt; and you worried me and Daddy like you can’t believe.” I hesitate, picking my words. “But you can do a bad thing and not be a bad person.”
“Like Father Gwynne?”
I freeze. “Actually, no. He did a bad thing, and he was a bad person.”
Nathaniel looks up at me. “What about you?”
• • •
Shortly after Dr. Robichaud, Nathaniel’s psychiatrist, takes the stand, Quentin Brown is on his feet to object. “Your Honor, what does this witness have to offer?”
“Judge, this goes to my client’s state of mind,” Fisher argues. “The information she received from Dr. Robichaud regarding her son’s declining condition was highly relevant to her mental status on October thirtieth.”
“I’ll allow it,” Judge Neal rules.
“Doctor, have you treated other children who were rendered mute after sexual abuse?” Fisher asks.
“Yes, unfortunately.”
“In some of these cases, do children never regain their voices?”
“It can take years.”
“Did you have any way of knowing whether this would be a long-term condition for Nathaniel Frost?”
“No,” Dr. Robichaud says. “In fact, that was why I began to teach him rudimentary sign language. He was becoming frustrated with his inability to communicate.”
“Did it help?”
“For a while,” the psychiatrist admits. “Then he began talking again.”
“Was the progress steady?”
“No. It broke down when Nathaniel lost contact with Mrs. Frost for a week.”
“Do you know why?”
“I understood she was charged with violating her bail conditions and was imprisoned.”
“Did you see Nathaniel during the week that his mother was in jail?”
“Yes, I did. Mr. Frost brought him in, quite upset that the child was no longer speaking. He’d regressed to the point where all he would sign for was his mother.”
“In your opinion, what caused that regression?”
“Clearly, it was the sudden and prolonged separation from Mrs. Frost,” Dr. Robichaud says.
“How did Nathaniel’s condition change when his mother was released again?”
“He cried out for her.” The psychiatrist smiles. “A joyful noise.”
“And, Doctor, were he to undergo a sudden and prolonged separation from his mother again . . . what do you think the likely outcome would be for Nathaniel?”
“Objection!” Quentin calls.
“Withdrawn.”
Moments later, the prosecutor stands up to cross-examine. “In dealing with five-year-olds, Doctor, don’t you find that they often become confused about events?”
“Absolutely. That’s why courts have competency hearings, Mr. Brown.”
At the very mention, Judge Neal gives him a warning glance. “Dr. Robichaud, in your experience, court cases of this type take several months to several years to come to trial, don’t they?”
“Yes.”
“And the developmental difference between a five-year-old and a seven-year-old is significant, isn’t it?”
“Definitely.”
“In fact, haven’t you treated children who seemed like they might have trouble testifying when they first came to you . . . yet a year or two later—after therapy and time had healed them a bit—they were able to take the stand without a setback?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t it true that you have no way of predicting whether Nathaniel would have been able to testify a few years from now without it causing significant psychological harm?”
“No, there’s no way to say what might have happened in the future.”
Quentin turns toward me. “As a prosecutor, Mrs. Frost would certainly be aware of thi
s time lag for court appearances, don’t you think?”
“Yes.”
“And as the mother of a child this age, she would be aware of the development changes possible over the next few years?”
“Yes. In fact, I tried to tell Mrs. Frost that in a year or so, Nathaniel might be doing far better than she expected. That he might even be capable of testifying on his own behalf.”
The prosecutor nods. “Unfortunately, though, the defendant killed Father Szyszynski before we could find out.”
Quentin withdraws the statement before Fisher can even object. I tug on the edge of his jacket. “I have to talk to you.” He stares at me as if I have lost my mind. “Yes,” I say. “Now.”
• • •
I know what Quentin Brown is thinking, because I have seen a case through his eyes. I proved she murdered him. I did my job. And maybe I have learned not to interfere in the lives of others, but surely it’s my responsibility to save myself. “It’s up to me,” I tell Fisher in the conference room. “I need to give them a reason to say it doesn’t matter.”
Fisher shakes his head. “You know what happens when defense attorneys overtry a case. The prosecution has the burden of proof, and all I can do is pick holes in it. But if I pick too hard, the whole thing deflates. Put on one too many witnesses, and the defense loses.”
“I understand what you’re saying. But Fisher, the prosecution did prove that I murdered Szyszynski. And I’m not your average witness.” I take a deep breath. “Sure, there are cases where the defense loses because they put on one witness too many. But there are other cases where the prosecution loses because the jury hears from the defendant. They know horrible things have been done—and they want to hear why, right from the horse’s mouth.”
“Nina, you can barely sit still when I’m doing cross-exams, you want to object so badly. I can’t put you on the stand as a witness when you’re such a goddamned prosecutor.” Fisher sits down across from me, splaying his hands on the table. “You think in facts. But just because you’re telling the jury something doesn’t mean they’re going to accept it as reality. After all the groundwork I’ve laid, they like me; they believe me. If I tell them you were so overcome with emotion you were beyond rational thought, they’ll buy it. On the other hand, no matter what you say to them, they’re predisposed to think you’re a liar.”
“Not if I tell them the truth.”
“That you really meant to shoot the other guy?”
“That I wasn’t crazy.”
“Nina,” Fisher says softly, “that’ll undo your whole defense. You can’t tell them that.”
“Why not, Fisher? Why can’t I make twelve lousy people understand that somewhere between a good deed and a bad deed are a thousand shades of gray? Right now, Quentin’s got me convicted, because he’s told them what I was thinking that day. If I take the stand, I can give them an alternative version. I can explain what I did, why it was wrong, and why I couldn’t see that, then. Either they’ll send me to jail . . . or they’ll send me home with my son. How can I not take that chance?”
Fisher stares down at the table. “You keep this up,” he says after a moment, “and I may have to hire you when we’re through.” He holds out a hand, counting off on his fingers. “You answer only the questions I ask. The minute you start trying to educate the jury I’m yanking you off. If I mention temporary insanity, you damn well find a way to support it without perjuring yourself. And if you show any temper whatsoever, get ready for a nice long stay in prison.”
“Okay.” I leap to my feet, ready to go.
But Fisher doesn’t move. “Nina. Just so you know . . . even if you can’t convince that jury, you’ve convinced me.”
Three months ago, if I’d heard that from a defense attorney, I’d have laughed. But now I smile at Fisher, wait for him to come up beside me at the door. We walk into that courtroom as a team.
• • •
My office, for the past seven years, has been a courtroom. It’s a space that is intimidating for many people, but not for me. I know what the rules are there: when to approach the clerk, when to talk to the jury, how to lean back and whisper to someone in the gallery without calling attention to myself. But now I am sitting in a part of that office I’ve never been in before. I am not allowed to move. I am not allowed to do the work I usually do.
I’m starting to see why so many people fear this.
The witness box is so small my knees bump up against the front. The stares of a couple hundred people poke at me, tiny needles. I think of what I have told thousands of witnesses during my career: Your job is to do three things: Listen to the question, answer the question, and stop talking. I remember something my boss used to say all the time—that the best witnesses were truck drivers and assembly line workers because they were far less likely to run off at the mouth than, for example, overeducated lawyers.
Fisher hands me the restraining order I took out against Caleb. “Why did you procure this, Nina?”
“I thought at the time that Nathaniel had identified my husband as the person who’d sexually abused him.”
“What did your husband do to make you believe this?”
I find Caleb in the gallery, shake my head. “Absolutely nothing.”
“Yet you took the extraordinary step of getting a restraining order to prevent him from seeing his own child?”
“I was focused on protecting my son. If Nathaniel said this was the person who hurt him . . . well, I did the only thing I could to keep him safe.”
“When did you decide to terminate the restraining order?” Fisher asks.
“When I realized that my son had been signing the word father not to identify Caleb, but to identify a priest.”
“Is that the point where you believed Father Szyszynski was the abuser?”
“It was a lot of things. First, a doctor told me that anal penetration had occurred. Then came Nathaniel’s hand sign. Then he whispered a name to Detective Ducharme that sounded like ‘Father Glen.’ And finally, Detective Ducharme told me he’d found my son’s underwear at St. Anne’s.” I swallow hard. “I’ve spent seven years putting together pieces to make cases that will stand up in court. I was just doing what seemed absolutely logical to me.”
Fisher glares at me. Absolutely logical. Oh, damn.
“Nina, listen carefully to my next question, please,” Fisher warns. “When you started to believe that Father Szyszynski was your son’s abuser, how did you feel?”
“I was a mess. This was a man I’d trusted with my own beliefs and my family’s beliefs. With my son. I was angry with myself because I’d been working so hard—if I’d been home more, I might have seen this coming. And I was frustrated because now that Nathaniel had identified a suspect, I knew the next step would be—”
“Nina,” Fisher interrupts. Answer the question, I remind myself with a mental kick. Then shut up.
Brown smiles. “Your Honor, let her finish answering.”
“Yes, Mr. Carrington,” the judge agrees. “I don’t believe Mrs. Frost is done.”
“Actually I am,” I say quickly.
“Did you discuss the best plan of action for your son with his psychiatrist?”
I shake my head. “There was no best plan of action. I’ve tried hundreds of cases involving child victims. Even if Nathaniel started speaking normally again, and got stronger . . . even if there were a year or two before the case went to trial . . . well, the priest never admitted to what he did. That means it all hinged on my son.”
“What do you mean?”
“Without a confession, the only thing a prosecutor’s got against the defendant is the child’s testimony. That means Nathaniel would have had to go through a competency hearing. He’d get up, in a room full of people like this, and say what that man had done to him. That man, of course, would be sitting six feet away, watching—and you can be sure that he’s told the child, more than once, not to tell. But no one would be sitting next to Nathaniel and nobody would
be holding him, nobody would be telling him it’s okay to talk now.
“Either Nathaniel would be terrified and fall apart during this hearing, and the judge would rule him not competent to stand trial—which means that the abuser would never get punished . . . or Nathaniel would be told he was able to stand trial—which means he’d have to go through it all over again in court, with the stakes cranked up a notch and a whole new set of people watching. Including twelve jurors predisposed to not believe him, because he’s only a child.” I turn to the jury. “I’m not all too comfortable here, now, and I’ve been in a courtroom every day for the past seven years. It’s scary to be trapped in this box. It’s scarring for any witness. But we were not talking about any witness. We were talking about Nathaniel.”
“What about the best-case scenario?” Fisher asks gently. “What if, after all that, the abuser was put in jail?”
“The priest would have been in prison for ten years, only ten years, because that’s what people with no criminal record get for destroying a child’s life. He would have most likely been paroled before Nathaniel even hit puberty.” I shake my head. “How can anyone consider that a best-case scenario? How can any court say that would protect my son?”
Fisher takes one last look at me and requests a recess.
• • •
In the conference room upstairs, Fisher crouches down in front of my chair. “Repeat after me,” he says.
“Oh, come on.”
“Repeat after me: I am a witness. I am not an attorney.”
Rolling my eyes, I recite, “I am a witness. I am not an attorney.”
“I will listen to the question, answer the question, and shut up,” Fisher continues.
If I were in Fisher’s shoes, I would want the same promise from my witness. But I am not in Fisher’s shoes. And by the same token, he isn’t in mine. “Fisher. Look at me. I am the woman who crossed the line. The one who actually did what any parent would want to do in this horrible situation. Every single person on that jury is looking at me and trying to figure out whether that makes me a monster or a hero.” I look down, feeling the sudden prick of tears. “It’s something I’m still trying to figure out. I can’t tell them why I did it. But I can explain that when Nathaniel’s life changes, mine changes. That if Nathaniel never gets over this, then neither will I. And when you look at it that way, sticking to the testimony doesn’t seem quite as important, does it?” When Fisher doesn’t answer, I reach as far down inside me as I can for whatever confidence has been left behind. “I know what I’m doing,” I tell Fisher. “I’m completely in control.”