by Jodi Picoult
“I imagine that’s hard when you’re all under house arrest.”
“It’s pretty sad when the high point of my day is walking to the end of the driveway to get the mail.” Leaning down, she sets a plate in front of me.
There’s a block of white fish, creamy white mashed potatoes, and a tiny hill of white rice.
“Meringues for dessert?” I guess.
“Angel food cake.”
I poke at the food with my fork.
She frowns. “Is the fish undercooked?”
“No, no—it’s great. I’ve just, um, never seen anyone color-coordinate a meal before.”
“Oh, it’s February first,” she says, as if that explains everything. “The first of every month is a White Food Day. I’ve been doing it so long I forget it’s not normal.”
I taste the potatoes; they’re out of this world. “What do you do on the thirty-first? Burn everything to a black crisp?”
“Don’t give Jacob any ideas,” Emma says. “Would you like some milk?”
She pours me a glass, and I reach for it. “I don’t get it. Why does the color of his food matter?”
“Why does the texture of velvet send him into a panic? Why can’t he stand the hum of an espresso machine? There are a million questions I don’t have answers for,” Emma replies, “so the easiest thing to do is just roll with the punches and keep him from having a meltdown.”
“Like he did in court,” I say. “And jail.”
“Exactly. So Monday’s food is green, Tuesday’s is red, Wednesday’s is yellow . . . you get the idea.”
I think for a moment. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but it seems like sometimes Jacob’s more adult than you or me—and other times, he gets totally overwhelmed.”
“That’s him. I truly think he’s smarter than anyone I’ve ever met, but he’s also more inflexible. And he takes every little thing that happens to heart, because he’s the center of his universe.”
“And yours,” I point out. “He’s the center of your universe, too.”
She ducks her head. “I guess.”
Maybe my Scandinavian parents knew what they were doing, because maybe it’s the fish and maybe it’s the way she looks in that moment—surprised, and a little flustered—but to my shock I realize I’d like to kiss her. However, I can’t because she’s my client’s mother, and because she would probably knock me flat on my ass.
“I assume you have a plan of attack,” she says.
My eyes widen—is she thinking the same thing about me? I tamp down an image of me pinning her to the table.
“The quicker the better,” Emma says, and my pulse triples. She glances over her shoulder to the living room, where Jacob is slowly shoveling rice into his mouth. “I just want this whole nightmare to be over.”
And with those words, I come crashing back to my sad little reality. I clear my throat, totally professional. “The most damaging discovery is the confession Jacob made. We need to try to get rid of it.”
“I thought I was going to be able to sit with Jacob in the interrogation room. If I’d been there, it would never have gotten this far, I just know it. They had to be asking him questions he didn’t understand, or firing them at him too fast.”
“We have a transcript. The questions were pretty straightforward, I think. Did you tell Matson that Jacob had Asperger’s before they started talking?”
“Yes, when he came to interview Jacob the first time.”
“First time?”
Emma nods. “He was going through Jess’s appointment book, and Jacob’s social skills lesson was on it, so the detective asked him a few questions.”
“Were you there to help translate?”
“Right here at the kitchen table,” Emma says. “Matson acted like he completely understood Jacob’s issues. That’s why, when he told me to bring Jacob to the station, I assumed it was going to be the same sort of interview and that I could be part of it.”
“That’s good, actually,” I tell her. “We can probably file a motion to suppress.”
“What’s that?”
Before I can answer, Jacob comes into the kitchen with his empty plate. He sets it in the sink and then pours himself a glass of Coca-Cola. “Under the Fifth Amendment of the U.S. Constitution, you have a right to remain silent, unless you waive that right, and in certain circumstances if the police don’t read you your Miranda rights or properly ask you to waive them, anything you say can be used against you. A defense attorney can file a motion to suppress in order to prevent that evidence from coming before the jury.” Then he walks back to the living room.
“That’s just plain wrong,” I mutter.
“It is?”
“Yeah,” I say. “How come he gets to drink Coke on White Food Day?”
It takes a moment, and then, for the very first time, I hear the music of Emma Hunt’s laugh.
Emma
I did not expect to feed Jacob’s lawyer lunch.
I didn’t expect to enjoy his company so much, either. But when he makes a joke about White Food Day—which is, let’s face it, as ridiculous as everyone in the fairy tale pretending the emperor is beautifully clothed instead of stark naked—I can’t help myself. I start to giggle. And before I know it, I am laughing so hard I cannot catch my breath.
Because when you get right down to it, it’s funny when I ask my son, How did you sleep? And he answers: On my stomach.
It’s funny when I tell Jacob I’ll be there in a minute and he starts counting down from sixty.
It’s funny that Jacob used to grab my collar every time I came home, his interpretation of “catch you later.”
It’s funny when he begs for a forensics textbook on Amazon.com and I ask him to give me a ballpark figure and he says, Second base.
And it’s funny when I move heaven and earth to give Jacob white food on the first of the month and he breezily pours himself a glass of Coke.
It’s true what they say about Asperger’s affecting the whole family. I’ve been doing this for so long, I forgot to consider what an outsider would think of our pale rice and fish, our long-standing routines—just like Jacob has no capacity to put himself in the shoes of someone else he encounters. And, as Jacob has learned one rebuff at a time, what looks pitiful from one angle looks absolutely hilarious from another.
“Life’s not fair,” I tell Oliver.
“That’s the reason there are defense attorneys,” he replies. “And Jacob’s right about the legal jargon, by the way. I’m going to file a motion to suppress because the police were on notice that they weren’t dealing with someone mentally able to truly understand his Miranda rights—”
“I know my Miranda rights!” Jacob yells from the other room. “You have the right to remain silent! Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law—”
“I’ve got it, Jacob, I’m good,” Oliver calls back. He stands up and puts his plate on the counter. “Thanks for lunch. I’ll let you know what happens with the hearing.”
I walk him to the door and watch him unlock his car. Instead of getting into it, though, he reaches into the backseat and then walks toward me again, his face sober. “There’s just one more thing,” Oliver says. He reaches for my hand and presses a miniature-size Milky Way into it. “Just in case you want to sneak it in before Brown Thursday,” he whispers, and for the second time that day, he leaves me smiling.
CASE 7: BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATER
Ernest Brendel’s sister didn’t believe her brother’s friend, who came to tell her, one fall day in 1991, that Ernest had been kidnapped—along with his wife, Alice, and young daughter, Emily—as part of a mafia scheme. But Christopher Hightower insisted that they needed ransom money, and as proof, he took her outside to Ernest’s Toyota, the car he’d driven there. He pointed to the backseat, which was soaked through with blood. There was more blood in the trunk. Eventually, police would match that blood evidence to Ernest Brendel. But they’d also prove that Hightower—not
the mafia—was to blame for Brendel’s death.
To most people, Chris Hightower was a commodities broker with ties to his Rhode Island community. He taught Sunday school and worked with at-risk kids. But one fall day in 1991, he went on a murder rampage, killing his friend Ernest Brendel and Brendel’s family. Facing financial trouble and estranged from his wife, Hightower purchased a crossbow and drove to Brendel’s house. He hid in the garage and fired an arrow into Brendel’s chest when the man arrived back home. While trying to escape, Brendel was shot twice more. He managed to crawl into the second car in the garage, a Toyota, where Hightower smashed his skull with a crowbar.
Hightower then picked Emily up from an after-school program at the YMCA by offering Brendel’s license as proof that he was a family friend who could be trusted to take the girl home. When Alice Brendel arrived home that night, she and Emily were drugged with sleeping pills. It was the last time anyone from the Brendel family was seen alive.
The next day Hightower bought a brush, a hose, some muriatic acid, and a fifty-pound bag of lime. He scrubbed the garage with muriatic acid to clean up the blood. He cleaned the car with baking soda and washed away more blood.
Six weeks later a woman walking a dog stumbled over two shallow graves. One housed the remains of Ernest Brendel. The second held Alice Brendel—found with a scarf wrapped around her neck—and Emily, who was believed to have been buried alive. In the grave was an empty bag of lime. In the Toyota that Hightower had been driving, police found the torn corner of that bag of lime, as well as the Home Depot receipt for the lime and the muriatic acid.
Hightower was convicted and is serving three life sentences. With friends like that, who needs enemies?
7
Theo
I’ve done the math: eventually, I’m going to be the one who has to take care of my brother.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not such a colossal ass that I’m going to totally ignore Jacob when we’re grown up and when (I can’t even imagine this) Mom isn’t around. What sort of pisses me off, though, is the silent assumption that, when Mom is unable to pick up after Jacob’s messes anymore, three guesses who’ll have to take over.
Once, I read this news story on the Internet about a woman in England whose son was retarded—big-time retarded, not disabled the way Jacob is disabled but, like, unable to brush his own teeth or remember to go to the bathroom when the urge strikes. (Let me just say here that if Jacob wakes up one day and needs an adult diaper, I don’t care if I’m the last person on earth—I’m not changing it.) Anyway, this woman, she had emphysema and she was slowly dying, and it got to a point where she could barely sit up in a wheelchair all day, much less help her son out. Then there was a photo of her with her son, and although I was expecting a kid my age, Ronnie was easily in his fifties. He had a chin full of thick stubble and a potbelly poking out from his Power Rangers T-shirt, and he was giving his mother this big, gummy smile while he hugged her in her wheelchair, where she sat with tubes running into her nose.
I couldn’t take my eyes off Ronnie. It was like I suddenly realized that one day, when I was married with a houseful of rug rats and doing the corporate thing, Jacob might still be watching his stupid CrimeBusters episodes and eating yellow foods on Wednesdays. My mom and Dr. Moon, Jacob’s shrink, always talked about this abstractly, as evidence of why they thought vaccines had something to do with autism, and why autism was a relatively new phenomenon (“If it’s really been around forever, where are all the autistic kids who’ve grown up and become adults? Because believe me, even if they’d been diagnosed as something else we’d know who they are.”) But until that very second I hadn’t made the connection that, one day, Jacob would be one of those adults with autism. Sure, he might be lucky enough to hold down a job like all those Aspies in Silicon Valley, but when he had a meltdown and started destroying his cubicle at said job, we all know who they’d call first.
Ronnie clearly never had grown up and never would, and that was why his mother was being featured in this newspaper, the Guardian: she had placed an ad asking for a family that would take in Ronnie and treat him like their own when she was dead. He was a sweet boy, she said, even if he still wet the bed.
Good freaking luck, I had thought. Who takes on someone else’s crap willingly? I wondered what kind of people would respond to Ronnie’s mom. Mother Teresa types, maybe. Or those families that you always see in the back pages of People magazine who foster-parent twenty special needs kids and somehow manage to shape them into a family. Or, worse, maybe some lonely old perv who figured a fellow like Ronnie wouldn’t realize if he was copping a feel every now and then. Ronnie’s mom said a group home wasn’t an option, since he’d never been in one and couldn’t adapt to one at this point. All she wanted was someone who might love him the way she did.
Anyway, the article got me thinking about Jacob. He could handle a group home, maybe, if he were still allowed to shower first in the morning. But if I tossed him into one (and don’t ask me how you even go about getting a spot), what would that say about me? That I was too selfish to be my brother’s keeper, that I didn’t love him.
Well, still, a little voice in my head said, you never signed on for this.
Then I realized: Neither did my mother, but it didn’t make her love Jacob any less.
So here’s the deal: I know that, down the road, Jacob will be my responsibility. When I find a girl I want to marry, I’m going to have to propose with this contingency—that Jacob and me, we’re a package deal. When I least expect it, I might have to make excuses for him, or talk him down from his freak-out session, like my mom does now.
(I am not saying this out loud, but there is a part of me that’s been thinking if Jacob is convicted of murder—if he’s imprisoned for life—well, mine gets a little bit easier.)
I hate myself for even thinking that, but I’m not going to lie to you.
And I guess it doesn’t matter if it’s guilt that gets me to take care of Jacob in the future, or love, because I’ll do it.
It just would have been nice to be asked, you know?
Oliver
Mama Spatakopoulous is standing at my office-apartment door with the day’s offering. “We had a little extra rigatoni,” she says. “And you’re working so hard, you look skinnier every day.”
I laugh and take the container out of her hands. It smells incredible, and Thor starts jumping around my ankles to make sure I don’t forget to give him his cut of the bounty. “Thanks, Mrs. S.,” I say, and as she turns to leave, I call her back. “Hey—what food do you know that’s yellow?” I’ve been thinking about how Emma feeds Jacob, according to his color scheme. Hell, I’ve been thinking about Emma, period.
“You mean like a scrambled egg?”
I snap my fingers. “Right,” I say. “Omelets, with Swiss cheese.”
She frowns. “You want me to make you an omelet?”
“Hell no, I’m sticking to the rigatoni.” Before I can explain the rest, my office phone starts to ring. Excusing myself, I hurry back inside and pick it up. “Oliver Bond’s office,” I say.
“Note to self,” Helen Sharp replies. “That line’s a little more effective when you hire someone else to deliver it.”
“My, uh, secretary just stepped out to use the restroom.”
She snorts. “Yeah, and I’m Miss America.”
“Congratulations,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “What’s your talent? Juggling the heads of defense attorneys?”
She ignores me. “I’m calling about the suppression hearing. You subpoenaed Rich Matson?”
“The detective? Well . . . yeah.” Who else was I supposed to subpoena, after all, in a motion that would try to suppress Jacob’s confession at the police station?
“You don’t have to subpoena him. I have to have Matson there, and I go first.”
“What do you mean you go first? It’s my motion.”
“I know, but this is one of those weird cases where, even though it’s yo
ur motion, the State has the burden of proof, and we have to put on all the evidence to prove the confession is good.”
For practically every other motion, it’s the other way around—if I want a ruling, I have to work my ass off to prove why I deserve it. How on earth was I supposed to know the exception to this rule?
I’m glad Helen’s not in the room with me, because my face is bright red. “Well, jeez,” I say, feigning nonchalance. “I know that. I was just seeing if you were on your toes.”
“While I have you on the phone, Oliver, I have to tell you. I don’t think you can play this case both ways.”
“What do you mean?”
“You can’t claim your client’s insane and that he didn’t understand his Miranda rights. He recited them from memory, for God’s sake.”
“Where’s the conflict?” I ask. “Who the hell memorizes Miranda verbatim?” Thor starts to bite my ankles, and I spill a little rigatoni into his dog dish. “Look, Helen. Jacob couldn’t do three days in jail. He certainly can’t do thirty-five years. I’m going to negotiate this case any way I can to make sure he doesn’t get locked up again.” I hesitate. “I don’t suppose you would consider letting Jacob just live with his mom? You know, put him on probation for the long haul?”
“Sure. Let me get right back to you on that, after my lunch with the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, and Santa,” Helen says. “This is murder, or have you forgotten that? You may have a client with autism, but I’ve got a dead body, and grieving parents, and that trumps everything. Maybe you can toss the special needs label around to get funding in schools or special accommodations, but it doesn’t preclude guilt. See you in court, Oliver.”
I slam down the phone and look down to find Thor lying on his side in a happy pasta coma. When the phone rings again, I grab it. “What?” I demand. “Was there some other legal procedure I’ve managed to screw up? Did you want to tell me you’re going to tattle to the judge?”