by Jodi Picoult
I want to hate Meg, but I can’t. She immediately surprises me by linking her arm through mine and leading me into the house. “You must have been worried sick,” she says. “I know I would have been.”
She offers me coffee and a slice of lemon–poppy seed cake while Theo and Henry vanish deeper into the house. I wonder if the cake was just lying around, if she is the sort of mother who makes sure there is a homemade baked good at all times on the kitchen counter, or if she’d popped it in the oven after Henry told her I was coming. I’m not quite sure which image upsets me more.
Her daughters (well, Henry’s, too) dart across the living room threshold to get a peek at me. They are sprites, little towheaded fairies. One of them wears a pink sequined tutu. “Girls,” Meg says. “Come on in here and meet Ms. Hunt.”
“Emma,” I say automatically. I wonder what these little girls make of a stranger who has the same last name they do. I wonder if Henry has ever explained me to them.
“This is Isabella,” Meg says, lightly touching the taller girl on the crown of her head. “And this is Grace.”
“Hello,” they chime, and Grace pops her thumb in her mouth.
“Hi,” I answer, and then I don’t know what to say.
Did Henry feel there was some balance to his second life, having two girls instead of two boys? Grace tugs on her mother’s shirt and whispers in her ear. “She wants to show you what she does in ballet,” Meg says apologetically.
“Oh, I love ballet,” I say.
Grace puts her arms in the air and touches her fingertips together. She begins to turn in a circle, wobbling only a little. I clap for her.
Jacob used to spin. It was one of his stims, when he was little. He’d go faster and faster until he crashed into something, usually a vase or another breakable item.
I already know it’s not true by looking at her, but if little Grace turned out to be autistic, would Henry run away again?
As if I’ve conjured him, Henry ducks into the room. “You were right,” he says to me. “He won’t talk without you there.” Whatever small satisfaction this gives me vanishes as Grace sees her father. She stops spinning and hurls herself at him with the force of a tropical storm. He lifts her into his arms and then tousles Isabella’s hair. There is an ease to Henry that I have not seen in him before, a quiet confidence that this is where he belongs. I can see it etched on his face, in the tiny lines that now fan out from his eyes, lines that were not there when I loved him.
Meg takes Grace on her hip and grasps Isabella’s hand. “Let’s give Daddy a chance to talk to his friends,” she says.
Friends. I loved him; I created children with him, and this is what we have been demoted to.
I follow Henry down a corridor to the room where Theo is waiting. “Your family,” I say. “They’re perfect.” But what I’m really saying is, Why didn’t I deserve this with you?
Oliver
“Well, Mr. Bond,” the judge says. “Here you are again.”
“Like a bad penny,” I reply, smiling.
Jacob and I are in court again, this time without Emma. She had called late last night and left a message saying that she and Theo would be flying home today. I hoped to have good news for her when she arrived; God knows she would need some by then.
The judge glances over the half-moons of his glasses. “We’ve got a motion before the court for accommodations during the trial of Jacob Hunt. What are you looking for, Counselor?”
Sympathy for a client who is incapable of showing any himself . . . but I can’t admit that. After Jacob’s last outburst in court, I thought about asking the judge to let him watch the proceedings from a separate room, but I need him in full view of the jury in order to make my defense work. If I’m playing the disability card, they have to be able to see Asperger’s manifesting itself in its full glory. “First, Your Honor,” I say, “Jacob needs sensory breaks. You’ve seen how he can get agitated by courtroom procedure—he has to be able to get up and leave the courtroom when he feels the need to do so. Second, he would like to have his mother sitting at the defense table beside him. Third, due to Jacob’s sensitivity to stimuli, we ask that Your Honor not use his gavel during the proceedings, and that the lights be turned down in the courtroom. Fourth, the prosecution needs to ask questions in a very direct and literal manner—”
“For God’s sake,” Helen Sharp sighs.
I glance at her but keep talking. “Fifth, we request that the length of the day in court be abbreviated.”
The judge shakes his head. “Ms. Sharp, I’m quite sure you have objections to those requests?”
“Yes, Your Honor. I don’t have a problem with numbers one, three, and five, but the others are absolutely prejudicial.”
“Mr. Bond,” the judge says, “why are you asking for your client’s mother to sit at counsel table?”
“Well, Your Honor, you’ve seen Jacob’s outbursts. Emma Hunt serves as a coping mechanism for him. I think that, given the stress of a court experience, having his mother beside him would be beneficial to all involved.”
“And yet, Ms. Hunt is not with us today,” the judge points out. “But the defendant seems to be faring well.”
“Ms. Hunt wanted to be here, but there has been a . . . family emergency,” I say. “And in terms of stress, there’s a huge difference between coming to court for a motion and coming for a full-blown murder trial.”
“Ms. Sharp,” the judge asks, “what is the basis for your objection to having the defendant’s mother sit at counsel table?”
“It’s twofold, Your Honor. There’s a concern about how to explain to the jury the defendant’s mother’s presence there. She’s testifying as a witness, so she will clearly be identified as the defendant’s mother, and as the court well knows, it is not good protocol to allow anyone other than the attorney and clients to sit at counsel table. Giving her the elevated position at table awards her more importance in the eyes of the jury, and it becomes an unexplained incident that negatively impacts the State. Moreover, we’ve heard all too often that the defendant’s mother interprets for him. She intervenes at his school with teachers, with strangers, with police officers. She’s the one who burst into the station and told the detective she had to be present at the interrogation. Judge, what’s to prevent her from writing an entire script for Jacob and passing it to him or whispering in his ear during the course of the trial to coach him into saying or doing something inappropriate and prejudicial?”
I stare at her for a moment. She’s really good.
“Mr. Bond? How do you respond?” the judge asks.
“Judge, Jacob’s mother’s presence at counsel table is the equivalent of having a Seeing Eye dog for a defendant who’s blind. The jury will understand if told that it’s not just an animal in the courtroom—it’s a necessity, an accommodation being made for the defendant because of his disability. Jacob’s mother, and her proximity to him during the trial, can be explained the same way,” I say. “What you’re ruling on today, Judge, is what accommodations need to be made to ensure that my client has a fair trial. That right, and those accommodations, are assured to him pursuant to the Americans with Disabilities Act and, even more important, pursuant to the Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh Amendments of the United States Constitution. Does this mean giving Jacob some minor concessions that other defendants don’t get in court? Yes, because those other defendants don’t have to deal with the crippling inability to communicate effectively and to interact with other people like Jacob does. For them, a trial is not a gigantic mountain standing between them and freedom, without even having the most basic tools with which they can begin climbing.”
I glance surreptitiously at the judge and make the snap decision to tone it down a little. “So how do we explain Jacob’s mother’s position to the jury? Easy. We say that the judge has given her a right to sit at counsel table. We say that this isn’t usual practice, but in this case she has a right to sit there. As for her role in the trial, Your Honor, I will
have her agree not to speak to Jacob but instead to communicate with him via writing, and those notes can be turned in to the court at the close of the day or during each recess, so that Ms. Sharp gets to see exactly what dialogue is going on between them.”
The judge removes his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. “This is an unusual case, with unusual circumstances. I’ve certainly had a good number of defendants come in front of me who had a hard time communicating . . . But in this case, we have a young man facing very serious charges and possible incarceration for the rest of his life, and we know he has a diagnosed inability to communicate the way the rest of us do . . . so it would be an oversight to expect him to behave in a courtroom the way the rest of us would.” He looks at Jacob, who—I imagine—is still not meeting his gaze. “What a fair trial looks like for this defendant may well be different from what it looks like for others, but that’s the nature of America—we make room for everyone, and that’s what we’re going to do for Mr. Hunt.” He looks down at the motion before him. “All right. I’m going to allow for the sensory breaks. We will ask the bailiff to set up a special room at the back of the courtroom, and anytime the defendant feels the need to leave, he is to pass a note to you, Mr. Bond. Is that satisfactory?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Then, Counselor, you may approach and ask me to call for a recess. You will explain to your client that he may not leave the courtroom until the recess has been called and he’s been excused by the court.”
“Got it, Your Honor,” I reply.
“As for your third request, I will not use my gavel for the duration of this trial. However, I’m not going to turn down the lights. It’s a security hazard for the bailiffs. Hopefully, having sensory breaks will help compensate, and I have no objection to the defendant turning out the lights in the break room in the rear of the court.”
Jacob tugs on my coat. “Can I wear sunglasses?”
“No,” I say curtly.
“Third, I’ll shorten the court sessions. We will break the trial into three forty-five-minute sessions in the morning, two in the afternoon, with fifteen-minute breaks in between. We will adjourn at four P.M. every day. I assume that will be satisfactory, Mr. Bond?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“I agree to allow the defendant’s mother to sit at counsel table; however, they can only communicate in writing, and those notes must be turned in to the court at every break. Finally, in regard to your request for the prosecution’s questioning to be direct and simple,” the judge says, “that I will deny. You can ask whatever short, literal questions you like, Mr. Bond, but the defendant has no constitutional right to direct how the State chooses to present its case.” He sticks my motion back inside a folder. “I trust that’s all satisfactory, Mr. Bond?”
“Of course,” I say, but inside, I’m doing handsprings. Because all of these little quirks and concessions are greater than the sum of their parts: the jury cannot help but see that Jacob’s different from your average defendant, from the rest of us.
And should be judged accordingly.
Theo
I wake up sneezing.
When I open my eyes, I’m in a pink room and there are feathers tickling my nose. I jackknife upright in the narrow little bed and remember where I am—one of the girls’ rooms. There are mobiles with glittery stars and piles of stuffed animals and a pink camouflage rug.
I sneeze again, and that’s when I realize I’m wearing a pink feather boa.
“What the fuck,” I say, unspooling it from my neck, and then I hear giggling. I lean over the side of the bed and find my father’s younger kid—I think her name is Grace—hiding under the bed.
“You said a bad word,” she tells me.
“What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” she asks. “This is my room.”
I flop back down on the mattress. Between the time my flight arrived and the Talk, I probably got all of four hours of sleep. No wonder I feel like shit.
She slips out from underneath the bed and sits down beside me. She’s really little—I’m not good with kid ages, though. She has purple nail polish on her toes, and she’s wearing a plastic tiara.
“How come you’re not in school?”
“Because it’s Friday, silly,” Grace says, although this doesn’t make any sense to me. “You have really big feet. They’re bigger than Leon.”
I’m wondering who Leon is, but then she takes a stuffed pig and holds it up against the bare sole of my foot.
My watch is on the nightstand, next to a book about a mouse too shy to tell anyone her name. I read it last night before I went to bed. It’s only 6:42 A.M., but we are leaving early. We’ve got a plane to catch.
“Are you my brother?” Grace asks.
I look at her. I try really hard, but I can’t see a single feature we have in common. And that’s really weird, because my mom has always told me I remind her of my dad. (For the record, now that I’ve seen for myself, it’s not true. I’m just blond, that’s all, and everyone else in my household has dark hair.) “I guess you could say that,” I tell her.
“Then how come you don’t live here?”
I look around at the princess poster on the wall, the china tea set on a table in the corner. “I don’t know,” I say, when the real answer is Because you have another brother, too.
* * *
This is what happened last night:
I got off the plane and found my parents—both of them—waiting for me outside airport security. “What the hell?” I blurted out.
“My thoughts exactly, Theo,” my mother said curtly. And then, before she could tear me a new one, my father said we were going to his house to discuss this.
He made stupid conversation for the twenty-minute drive, while I felt my mother’s eyes boring holes into the back of my skull. When we reached his home, I got a glimpse of a really pretty woman who had to be his wife before he led me into the library.
It was very modern, and totally unlike our house. There were windows that made up one entire wall, and the couch was black leather and full of right angles. It looked like the kind of room you see in magazines at doctors’ offices, and not anywhere you’d want to live. Our couch was made of some red, stain-proof fabric, and yet there was a stain on the arm from where I spilled grape juice once. The zippers on two of the pillows were broken. But when you wanted to flop down and watch TV, it fit you perfectly.
“So,” my father said, gesturing to a seat. “This is a little awkward.”
“Yeah.”
“I mean, I don’t really have much of a right to tell you that running away was a stupid thing to do. And that you scared your mother to death. And I’m not going to tell you that she’s out for blood—”
“You don’t have to tell me that.”
He clasps his hands between his knees. “Anyway, I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m not going to tell you any of those things.” He looks at me. “I figured you came all the way out here so that I would listen.”
I hesitate. He seems so familiar to me, but that’s crazy—given that I talk to him twice a year, on Christmas and my birthday. And yet, maybe that’s what being related to someone does for you. Maybe it lets you pick up where you left off, even if that was fifteen years ago.
I want to tell him why I’m there—the story of Jacob’s arrest, the truth behind my own breaking and entering, the phone message I never gave my mother from the bank, denying her the second mortgage loan—but all the words jam in my throat. I choke on the sentences until I cannot breathe, until tears spring to my eyes, and what comes out finally is none of these things.
“Why didn’t I matter?” I say.
This is not what I wanted. I wanted him to see me as the responsible young man I’ve become, trying to save my family, and I wanted him to shake his head and think, I sure fucked up. I should have stayed with him, gotten to know him. He turned out so well. Instead, I’m a blubbering mess, with my nose running and m
y hair in my eyes and I’m so tired; I’m suddenly so freaking tired.
When you expect something, you’re sure to be disappointed. I learned that a long time ago. But if this had been my mother sitting next to me, her arms would have wrapped around me in an instant. She would have rubbed my back and told me to relax, and I would have let myself melt against her until I felt better.
My father cleared his throat, and didn’t touch me at all.
“I’m, uh, not very good at this kind of thing,” he said. He shifted, and I wiped my eyes, thinking he was trying to reach out to me, but instead he took his wallet out of his back pocket. “Here,” he says, holding out a few twenties. “Why don’t you take this?”
I look at him, and before I know it, a laugh has snorted its way out of me. My brother is about to be tried for murder, my mother wants my head on a silver platter, my future’s so dim I might as well be buried in a coal mine—and my father can’t even pat me on the back and tell me I’m going to be okay. Instead, he thinks sixty bucks is going to make everything better.
“I’m sorry,” I say, laughing in earnest now. “I’m really sorry.”
It strikes me that I’m not the one who should be saying that.
I don’t know what I was thinking, coming out here. There are no silver bullets in life, there’s just the long, messy climb out of the pit you’ve dug yourself.
“I think maybe you should go get Mom,” I say.
I’m sure my father thinks I’m crazy, laughing my ass off like this when a minute before I was sobbing. And as he gets up—relieved to get the hell away from me, I’m sure—I realize why my father seems familiar. It’s not because we have anything in common, much less share a genetic code. It’s because, with his obvious discomfort and the way he won’t look at me now and the fact that he doesn’t want physical contact, he reminds me so much of my brother.
* * *
I don’t speak to my mom the whole time my father is driving us to the airport. I don’t say a word when my father gives her a check, and she looks at the number written on it, and cannot speak. “Just take it,” he says. “I wish . . . I wish I could be there for him.”