The Pact

by Jodi Picoult

  "LET ME GUESS," Selena said a few minutes later when she came into the house and found Jordan sprawled miserably on the couch. "Emily came back to life and pointed a finger at your client."

  "Hmm?" Jordan levered himself on an elbow and swung his feet off the edge so that Selena could sit down. "No, nothing like that." He passed the telegram to Selena and waited for her to read it.

  "I didn't even know your wife was alive, much less dating someone."

  "Ex-wife. I knew she was alive. Or, rather, my accountant did. Got to send that alimony somewhere." He sighed and sat up. "The hell of it is, Thomas and I just had a fight."

  "You two never fight."

  "Well, there's a first time for everything." Jordan scowled. "And now he gets to run off with the other parent."

  "In Paris," Selena added, glancing around. "I've got to tell you, Jordan. You can't compete with the Left Bank."

  "Thanks a lot," he grumbled.

  Selena patted his knee. "It will all work out," she predicted.

  "What makes you so sure?"

  She glanced at him, surprised. "Why, because that's your forte." She unloaded a stack of small notebooks and set them on the coffee table beside Thomas's school binders. "Are we going to brood tonight? Or talk about the case? Not that I mind either one," she hastily added.

  "No, no, the case," Jordan said. "Get my mind off Thomas." He walked into the dining room, returning with a high stack of papers. "What are you doing for Christmas?"

  "Going to my sister's," Selena said, looking up. "Sorry." She waited for Jordan to sit down next to her again. "Okay," she said. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

  Jordan laughed. "What did you get from Michael Gold?"

  Selena flipped through her notebook. "I think he's going to help us. Reluctantly. You can use him to bring up how little time Emily spent with her parents, cast doubt on how well he knew his own daughter ... "

  Jordan's mind flashed back to Thomas, hiding his Penthouse. How long had it been here, with Jordan away and working and lacking the time to find it?

  Selena was still talking about Michael Gold. " ... while he won't tell a jury that Chris didn't do it, I think you can get him to admit that Chris loved Emily."

  "Mmm," Jordan said, looking over her notes. "And we can mention that Michael's been to visit Chris in jail."

  "He has?"

  Jordan smiled. "You must have triggered something in him."

  "The only other thing I've got is Emily's art teacher, who has no verbal mention of suicide but a whopper of a convincing painting." She told Jordan about Emily's self-portrait.

  "I'll have to think about that. Who could we get to interpret the difference in styles? It's not like we're talking about a real artist."

  "You'd be surprised," Selena said. She shucked off her shoes. "What have you got?"

  "Well," Jordan said, "Emily was eleven weeks pregnant."

  "What?"

  "That's exactly what Chris said," Jordan murmured, "before he passed out." He looked at Selena. "You know, I've seen a lot of liars over the years. Hell, I've made a career out of consorting with them. But either this kid is the best one I've ever met, or he really didn't know about that baby."

  Selena's mind was racing. "That's the prosecution's motive," she calculated aloud. "He knew and was trying to eliminate the whole problem."

  "Add college into the mix, and you too can be S. Barrett Delaney," Jordan mocked.

  "Well, then, it's simple. All we have to offer is a two-pronged defense. We get proof that Emily was suicidal, and we get proof that Chris didn't know about the baby."

  "Easier said than done," Jordan reminded her. "Just because he didn't tell someone doesn't mean he didn't know."

  "I'll go back and talk to Michael Gold," Selena said. "And there was something the art teacher said--about Emily wanting to go study abroad, or attend a school of fine arts. Maybe she was the one who didn't want the baby."

  "Suicide seems a bit extreme as a method of abortion," Jordan said.

  "No, it's the pressure, don't you see? Emily's this perfectionist, and all of a sudden her plans had a wrench thrown into them. She wasn't going to live up to what everyone expected her to be, so she killed herself. End of story."

  "Very nice. Too bad you're not the jury foreman."

  "Can it," Selena said pleasantly. "Did her regular doctor know about the pregnancy?"

  "Apparently not," Jordan said. "It's not in the medical files the prosecution handed over."

  Selena began writing in her notepad. "We can try Wellspring and Planned Parenthood," she said. "May have to subpoena the records, but I'll see if I can find someone willing to talk. The other thing I want to do is try to plant doubt about who brought the gun. Maybe put James Harte on the stand and ask if Emily ever had access to the gun cabinet, if she knew where the key was, you know. Get the jury off on another tangent. Oh, and I'm meeting with Chris's English teacher. Scuttlebutt has it that she thinks he's the Second Coming."

  She paused for breath and looked up to find Jordan staring at her, a faint smile dancing at the edge of his mouth. "What?" she demanded.

  "Nothing," Jordan said, looking away. He clapped his hand over his collar, as if he could tamp down the blush creeping up his neck. "Nothing at all."

  IT WAS HIGHLY UNLIKELY that any medical professional would be willing to talk to the defense team's investigator without being formally subpoenaed. Still, the rules at the clinics set up for free prenatal testing and care were slightly different. Although the records were sealed, the walls had ears. People talked in clinics, and cried, and other people heard them.

  Selena had tried Wellspring first, without making a dent in the hatchet-faced receptionist. Then she'd gathered up her reserve at a nearby coffee bar and optimistically headed toward Planned Parenthood. Located two towns over from Bainbridge, it was on the bus line. Emily, who did not have her own vehicle, would have been able to get there without much difficulty.

  The office was small and lemon yellow, located inside a converted Colonial. The receptionist here had high, teased hair the same color as the walls, and eyebrows that were painted on. "May I help you?" she asked.

  "Yes," Selena said, handing her a card. "I wonder if I might be able to speak with the director."

  "I'm sorry, she's not here now. May I ask what this is in reference to?"

  "I'm working with the defense in a case involving the alleged murder of Emily Gold. It's possible that she was a patient here recently. And I'd like to speak to someone who examined her."

  The receptionist looked at the card. "I'll give this to the director," she said, "but I can save you some trouble. She'll tell you you have to subpoena a request for the records, if they're here."

  "Marvelous," Selena said, baring her teeth. "Thanks for your help."

  She watched the receptionist turn toward a ringing phone, and walked back to the waiting room. A counselor holding a chart looked at her as she shrugged on her coat. As she walked out the door, the woman was escorting a heavily pregnant woman into the inner sanctum.

  Selena slid into her car and turned over the ignition. "Goddamn," she said, slamming her hand on the steering wheel so hard it honked. The last thing she really wanted was to subpoena the records, because that meant the State would be present too, and God only knew what Planned Parenthood would have to say. For all Selena knew, Emily Gold had come in crying that the baby was some other guy's, and that Chris had threatened to kill her.

  She jolted as there was a sharp rap on the window. Rolling it down, Selena found herself face-to-face with the counselor from inside. "Hi," she said. "I heard you in there." Selena nodded. "I--could I come in? It's cold."

  Selena noticed that the woman was still wearing her short, smocked nurse's uniform. "Be my guest," she said, sliding over to open the passenger door.

  "My name is Stephanie Newell," the counselor said. "I was working the day Emily Gold came in here." She took a deep breath, and Selena began to pray very, very hard. "The
only reason I even remember that name is because I've been reading about her in the papers so much. She came a few times. At first she was talking abortion, but then she got scared and kept putting it off. There are counselors here--you know that the women all have to talk to counselors?" Selena nodded. "Well, I was the one who talked to Emily. And when I asked about the father of the baby, she said that he was out of the picture."

  "Out of the picture? Those were the words she used?"

  Stephanie nodded. "I tried to get her to elaborate, but she wouldn't. Every time I asked if he lived out of state, or if he even knew about the baby, she just said she hadn't told him yet. As counselors, we're trained to help clients see all the options, but not to force them to change their minds. Emily cried a lot, and mostly I just listened." She fidgeted in the seat. "Then I started reading in the papers about this boy, who'd killed Emily because of the baby, and I thought that didn't seem right, because he didn't even know she was pregnant."

  "Is it possible that you convinced Emily to tell him? Maybe after one of your visits?"

  "It's possible," Stephanie said. "But every time I saw Emily she said the same thing--she hadn't told the father; she didn't want to. And the last time I saw her was the day she died."

  AT THE SOUND OF the heavy barred door slamming shut, Dr. Feinstein jumped, leading Jordan to believe that it would not be all that difficult to convince the man not to come back. "This way, Doctor," Jordan said solicitiously, directing the man toward the narrow staircase that led up to the attorneys' conference room at the jail. The officer who unlocked the door smiled grimly, hitched his hands into his belt, and told them Chris was on his way.

  "Interesting fellow," Jordan said, taking a seat in the small, stifling room.

  "You mean Chris?"

  "No, the officer. He's the one who was held hostage here last year."

  "Oh," Dr. Feinstein said, peering out the door. "I remember seeing that on the news."

  "Yeah. Messy thing. Ax murderer who was waiting for trial led the uprising, and they locked the guy in one of the cells after they cut up his face with a razor blade." He leaned back, linking his hands on his belly and enjoying the way Dr. Feinstein's face leached of color. "You remember, now, the conditions for this interview?"

  Dr. Feinstein turned his head away from the door with effort. "Conditions? Oh, yes. Although I will tell you again that my primary interest is healing Chris's mind, and there's a certain benefit associated with exploring the moment it was damaged in a now-safe environment."

  "Well, you'll have to go about your 'healing' in another way," Jordan said flatly. "No discussing the crime, or the case."

  Dr. Feinstein rallied once more. "Whatever Chris says is protected by patient confidentiality," he said. "You really don't have to be present."

  "Number one," Jordan said, "patient confidentiality has been violated before in extreme circumstances, and Murder One certainly qualifies as one of those. Number two, the dynamics of your relationship with my client come second to my relationship with him. And if he's going to be putting his trust in anyone these days, it's me, Doctor. Because you might be able to save his mind, but I'm the only one who can save his life."

  Before the psychiatrist could answer, Chris appeared at the doorway. A smile broke over his face at the sight of Dr. Feinstein. "Hi," he said. "I've, uh, had a change of address."

  "I can see that," Dr. Feinstein chuckled, settling back in his chair with such ease that Jordan found it difficult to believe this same man had been shaking at the control booth only minutes before. "Your attorney graciously arranged for me to have a private meeting with you. Provided he's allowed to chaperone."

  Chris cut a glance toward his lawyer and shrugged. Jordan took that as a very good sign. He sat down at the last empty chair and flattened his palms on the table.

  "Why don't we start with how you're feeling?" Dr. Feinstein began.

  Chris turned toward Jordan. "Well ... I feel weird with him here," he said.

  "Pretend I'm not," Jordan suggested, closing his eyes. "Pretend I'm taking a nap."

  Chris scraped his chair along the floor, turning it sideways so that he wouldn't see Jordan's face. "At first I was pretty scared," he told the psychiatrist. "But then I figured out that if you keep to yourself it's okay. I just try to ignore most everybody." He picked at the cuticle on his thumb.

  "You must have a lot you want to say."

  Chris shrugged. "Maybe. I talk a little to one of my cellmates, Steve. He's all right. But there are things I don't tell anyone at all."

  Atta boy, Jordan thought silently.

  "Do you want to talk about these things?"

  "No. I don't," Chris said. "But I think I need to." He looked up at the psychiatrist. "Sometimes it feels like my head's going to crack apart." Dr. Feinstein nodded. "I found out that Emily was ... we were going to have a baby."

  He paused, as if waiting for Jordan to swoop in, avenging legal angel, to say that this was too closely related to the case to discuss. In the silence, Chris knotted his hands together, squeezing the knuckles tight against each other so that the pain would keep him focused. "When did you find out?" Dr. Feinstein asked, his face carefully blank.

  "Two days ago," Chris said softly. "When it was too late." He looked up. "Do you want to hear the dream I had? Don't psychiatrists like dreams?"

  Dr. Feinstein laughed. "Freudians do. I'm not a psychoanalyst, but go right ahead."

  "Well, I don't dream much in this place. You've got to understand, the doors are slamming shut all night, and every few minutes one of the more obnoxious officers comes around on the catwalk and shines his flashlight in your face. So the fact that I slept deep enough to dream anything is pretty amazing. Anyway, I dreamed she was sitting next to me--Emily, I mean--and she was crying. I put my arms around her, and I could feel her shrinking away, into only skin and bones, so I hugged her a little tighter. But that just made her cry more, and curl up closer, and all of a sudden she hardly weighed anything at all and I looked down and saw that I was holding this baby."

  Jordan shifted uncomfortably. When he'd included himself in this private session, he had not thought beyond the point of protecting Chris legally. Now, he was beginning to realize that the relationship between a psychiatrist and client was very different from the relationship between a lawyer and client. An attorney only had to draw out the facts. A psychiatrist was obligated to extract the feelings.

  Jordan didn't want to hear Chris's feelings. He didn't want to hear Chris's dreams. That would mean getting involved personally, never a good idea when practicing law.

  He had a fleeting vision of Chris, sucked dry on both accounts by Dr. Feinstein and himself, blowing away like a husk.

  "Why do you think you had this dream?" Dr. Feinstein was saying.

  "Oh--I'm not done yet. Something happened after." Chris took a deep breath. "I was holding this baby, see, and it was screaming. Like it was hungry, but I couldn't figure out what to feed it. It kicked harder and harder, and I talked to it, but that didn't make a difference. So I kissed it on the forehead, and then I stood up and slammed its head onto the ground."

  Jordan buried his face in his hands. Oh, Christ, he prayed silently. Don't let Feinstein get subpoenaed.

  "Well. A psychoanalyst would say something about you trying to return to the so-called childhood of your original relationship," Dr. Feinstein said, smiling. "But I'd probably say it sounds like you were frustrated when you went to bed."

  "I took this psych course at school," Chris continued, as if Feinstein had not spoken. "I think I can figure out why Emily turned into the baby in the dream--somehow I've got them connected in my mind. I even understand why I was trying to kill it--that guy Steve I was talking about, my cellmate? He's in here because he shook his baby to death. So that was already going around my head, too, when I went to sleep."

  Dr. Feinstein cleared his throat. "How did you feel when you woke up from the dream?"

  "That's the thing," Chris said. "I wasn't s
ad. I was totally pissed off."

  "Why do you think you were angry?"

  Chris shrugged. "You're the one who said that emotions all jumble together."

  Feinstein smiled. "So you were listening," he said. "In this dream, you hurt the baby. Might you be angry about the fact that Emily was pregnant?"

  "Wait a second," Jordan objected, aware that critical information was about to be revealed.

  But Chris wasn't listening. "How could I be?" he said. "By the time I found out about it, it didn't make much difference."

  "Why not?"

  "Because," Chris said sullenly.

  "Because isn't an answer," Dr. Feinstein said.

  "Because she's dead," Chris exploded. He slumped down in his chair and ran his hand through his hair. "God," he said softly. "I am mad at her."

  Jordan leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees. He remembered how, the day Deborah had left him, he'd gone to work at the DA's office and had picked Thomas up at day care and acted as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. And then a week later Thomas had knocked over a cup of milk and Jordan had all but skinned him alive--he, who had never struck his son--before he realized who he was really trying to punish.

  "Why are you angry at her, Chris?" Dr. Feinstein asked softly.

  "Because she kept it a secret," Chris said hotly. "She said she loved me. When you love someone you let them take care of you."

  Dr. Feinstein was silent for a moment, watching his patient gather control. "If she'd told you about the baby, how would you have taken care of her?"

  "I would have married her," he said immediately. "A couple of years wouldn't have made a difference."

  "Hmm. Do you think Emily knew you would have married her?"

  "Yes," Chris said firmly.

  "And what is it about this that scares the hell out of you?"

  For a moment, Chris was speechless, his eyes set on Dr. Feinstein as if he was wondering whether the man was a seer. Then he looked away and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "My whole life was about her," Chris said, his voice thick. "What if her whole life wasn't all about me?" He bowed his head at the same instant that Jordan lurched to his feet and walked out of the conference room, breaking his own rules so he would not have to listen anymore.