by Jodi Picoult
"Was that gun held up to Emily's head?"
"Yes."
"Was your finger on the trigger?"
"Yes."
"Was a shot fired?"
"Yes."
"Was Emily's hand on the gun, with yours?"
"Uh-huh," Chris said.
"Was she saying, 'Now, Chris, now'?"
"Yes."
Jordan crossed the courtroom, coming to rest in front of the jury. "Can you say, Chris--without a doubt--that your actions, your motions, your muscles, were the only things that caused that shot to be fired?"
"No," Chris said, his eyes shining. "I guess not."
TO EVERYONE'S SURPRISE, Judge Puckett insisted on having summations after lunch. As the bailiffs moved forward to take Chris to the sheriff's lockup downstairs, he reached out to touch Jordan's sleeve. "Jordan," he began.
The lawyer was collecting notes and pencils and documents that had been scattered around the table. He did not bother to lift his head. "Don't talk to me," he said, and left without a backward glance.
BARRIE DELANEY TREATED HERSELF to a Haagen-Dazs ice cream bar. Chocolate inside, and chocolate outside. A clear celebration.
As an assistant attorney general, the only way to make a name for oneself was to have the good fortune to be next on the roster when a high-profile case happened to come up. In that, Barrie had been fortunate. Murders were rare in Grafton County; dramatic courthouse confessions were unheard of. The whole state would be talking about this case for days. Barrie might even be interviewed for the network news.
She carefully licked around the edge of her ice cream, aware that a spot on her suit wouldn't be a good idea when she still had a closing argument to give. But as far as she figured, she could stand up after Jordan's summation and recite the alphabet, and Chris Harte would still be convicted of murder. In spite of Jordan's last ditch efforts, a jury knew when it had been taken for a ride. All that crap about the double suicide attempt which the defense had tried as a strategy, and which was just that--crap--was going to weigh heavily on those twelve minds when they retired to deliberate.
The jury had the memory of Chris saying he'd shot the girl. The whole debacle with his mother on the stand. And the knowledge that for the first three days of this trial, the defense had deliberately been lying.
Nobody liked finding out they'd been duped.
Barrie Delaney smiled and licked her fingers. Least of all, she imagined, Jordan McAfee.
"GET AWAY," JORDAN YELLED over his shoulder.
"Tough," Selena shot back.
"Just leave me alone, all right?" He stalked away from her, but she was damn tall and those long legs ate up his stride. Seizing the opportunity, he ducked into the men's room only to have Selena throw the door back on its hinges and step inside. She glared at an elderly man using the urinal, who quickly zipped up his fly, flushed, and left. Then she leaned back against the door, to prevent anyone else from entering. "Now," she ordered. "Talk."
Jordan leaned against the sink and closed his eyes. "Do you have any idea," he said, "what this is going to do to my credibility?"
"Absolutely nothing," Selena said. "You got Chris to sign a waiver."
"Which is exactly what no one's going to hear on the news. They're going to assume I'm as competent in a courtroom as one of the Seven Dwarfs."
"Which one?" Selena asked, smiling slightly.
"Dopey," Jordan sighed. "God. Am I an idiot? How could I have put him on the stand without grilling him first about what he was going to say?"
"You were angry," Selena said.
"So?"
"So. You don't know what you're like when you're angry." She touched his arm. "You did the best you could for Chris," she gently reminded him. "You can't win all of the time."
Jordan glanced at her. "Why the hell not?" he said.
"YOU KNOW WHAT?" Jordan began, facing the jury. "Three hours ago, I didn't have the slightest idea what I was going to say to you all right now. And then it dawned on me--I wanted to congratulate you. Because you've seen something very unusual today. Something surprising that never, ever makes its way into a courtroom. You, ladies and gentlemen, have seen the truth."
He smiled, leaning against the defense table. "It's a tricky word, isn't it? Sounds larger than life." He straightened his face in a good impression of Judge Puckett. "Very serious. I looked it up in the dictionary," he admitted. "Webster's says it's the real state of things, the body of real events or facts." Jordan shrugged. "Then again, Oscar Wilde said that the pure and simple truth is rarely pure and never simple. Truth, you see, is in the eye of the beholder.
"Did you know I used to be a prosecutor? I was. Worked in the same office where Ms. Delaney works now, for ten years. You know why I left? Because I didn't like the idea of truth. When you're a prosecutor, the world's black or white, and things either happened or they didn't. I always believed there was more than one way to tell a story, to see things. I didn't think truth even belonged in a trial. As a prosecutor you present your evidence and your witnesses, and then the defense gets a chance to put a different spin on the same stuff. But you'll notice I didn't say anything about presenting the truth."
He laughed. "Funny, don't you think, that I should have to take the truth and run with it to the end zone, now? Because that's all I have left, in defense of Chris Harte. This trial ... unbelievably ... has been about the truth."
Jordan walked toward the jury and spread his hands on the railing of the box. "We started this trial with two truths. Mine," he speared his chest, "and hers." He jerked a thumb at Barrie Delaney. "And then we saw a lot of variations. The truth, to Emily's mother, is that there's no way her daughter could have been anything less than perfect. But, then, we all see people the way we want to. The truth, to the detective and the medical examiner, comes from an arrangement of hard evidence. That isn't to say that the evidence might not lead them to their theory. The truth, to Michael Gold, means taking responsibility for something too horrible to imagine, even though it's easier to point the blame at someone else. And the truth, to Chris's mother, has nothing to do with this case. Her truth is believing in her son ... no matter what that entails.
"But the most important truth you've heard comes from Chris Harte. There are only two people who know what really happened the night of November seventh. One of them is dead. And one of them just told you everything."
Jordan skimmed his hand along the rail of the box as he surveyed the jury. "That, ladies and gentlemen, is where you come in. Ms. Delaney has given you a set of facts. And Chris Harte has given you the truth. Do you just blindly agree with Ms. Delaney--see things the way she wants you to see them, through her black-and-white glasses? Do you say: There was a gun, there was a shot, a girl died; therefore it must be murder? Or do you look at the truth?
"You have a choice. You can do what I used to do--what I like to do as a lawyer--just go on the facts and form your own opinions. Or you can hold the truth in your hands, and see it for the gift it is." He leaned toward the jury, his voice softening. "There once was a boy and a girl. They grew up together. They loved each other like a brother and a sister. They spent every moment together, and when they got older they became lovers. Their feelings and their hearts became so intertwined that they could no longer distinguish their individual needs.
"Then, for a reason we may never know, one of these young people began to hurt. She hurt so badly that she didn't want to live. And she turned to the only person she trusted." Jordan walked toward Chris, stopping just inches from his client. "He tried to help. He tried to stop her. But at the same time, he could feel her pain as if it were his own. And in the end, he couldn't stop her. He was a failure. He even went so far as to walk away."
Jordan looked at the jury. "The problem was, Emily couldn't kill herself. She begged him, she pleaded, she cried, she put her hand over his on the gun. She was such a part of him and he was such a part of her, that she couldn't even complete this final act by herself. Now, here's the question yo
u face, as a jury: Did Chris do it by himself?
"Who knows, ladies and gentlemen, what made that trigger kick? There is physical power, and then there's the power of the mind. Maybe it was Emily jerking against Chris's hand. And maybe it was Emily telling him that she wanted to die, more than anything. Telling him that she trusted him and loved him enough to help her to do it. As I said, Chris Harte is the only person in this courtroom who was there. And by his own testimony, even Chris does not know for sure what happened.
"Ms. Delaney wants you to convict Chris on a charge of first-degree murder. However, to do that, she has to prove that he had the time and opportunity for reflection. That he thought about what he was going to do, that he settled on his purpose, and that his mind was made up to take Emily's life."
Jordan shook his head. "But you know what? Chris didn't want to kill Emily that night--or any other night. It was the last thing he wanted to do. And Chris didn't have time to think about what happened. He never made up his mind to do anything. Emily made up his mind for him.
"This trial is not about Ms. Delaney's set of facts, or about anything I said in my opening statement, or even about the witnesses I presented. It is about Chris Harte, and what he chose to reveal to you." Jordan slowly moved his eyes over the jury, catching each of the twelve gazes. "He was there, and he has some doubts about what actually happened. How couldn't you?"
Jordan started toward the defense table, pausing midway. "Chris told you something most juries never hear--the truth. Now it's up to you to tell him you were listening."
"MR. MCAFEE CERTAINLY HAS A FUTURE as a novelist," Barrie said. "I was getting caught up in the drama, myself. But what Mr. McAfee was trying to do was draw you away from the clear-cut facts of this case, which he says are not the same thing as 'the truth.'
"Now, we don't actually know if Chris Harte is telling the truth," she said. "We know he's lied before--to the police, to his parents. In fact, we've heard three different stories during this trial. The first story was that Emily was going to kill herself, and so was Chris. The second story was that Emily was still suicidal ... but Chris was going to try to stop her." Barrie paused. "You know, that works a little better for me, because Chris doesn't seem very suicidal.
"Oh, but then Chris changed his story again: Emily couldn't manage to pull the trigger by herself, so he had to physically pull it for her." Barrie sighed dramatically. "Mr. McAfee wants you to look at the truth." She raised her brows. "Which one?
"For the sake of argument, let's stick to Chris's last story. Let's assume that's the truth. Yet even if it is, you have no choice but to convict him. You've seen the physical evidence--which is the one thing that hasn't changed during the course of this trial. You've heard Detective Marrone say that Chris's fingerprints were on the gun; you've heard the medical examiner say that the trajectory of the bullet through Emily's head indicates that someone shot her; you've heard him give evidence of Chris's skin beneath Emily's fingernails and bruises on Emily's wrist incurred during a struggle. But perhaps more importantly, you've heard Chris Harte say that he shot Emily Gold. By his own admission, he killed her.
"A person is guilty of murder in the first degree if they intend to cause the death of someone else. If their actions are premeditated, deliberate, and willful.
"Let's think about this: Chris Harte weighed the pros and cons and then decided to bring a gun to the scene of the crime. That's premeditated. He loaded the gun. That's deliberate. He took the gun from Emily's hand of his own free will, held it up to her head, and was still holding it when the shot was fired. That, ladies and gentlemen, is murder in the first degree. It doesn't matter if he felt sorry for Emily. It doesn't matter if Emily asked him to do it. It doesn't matter if it hurt him to kill her. In this country, you can't just take a gun and shoot someone. Even if they ask you to."
Barrie walked toward the jury. "If we believe Chris now, where do we draw the line? Especially when the victim is no longer alive to testify. We'd have criminals roaming the streets, assuring us that their victims begged them to kill them, honest to God." She pointed toward the witness stand. "Chris Harte sat there and told you that he took the gun, held it to Emily's head, and shot her. No matter what else was going on around that--the emotions, the psychological mumbo-jumbo, the confusion--that is what happened. There is your truth.
"You have to find Christopher Harte guilty if the death of Emily Gold was a direct result of his actions. If those actions were premeditated, deliberate, and willful. So ... how do you know without a doubt that Chris Harte's actions qualify?" Barrie crossed the courtroom, ticking off her points. "Because he could have put down that pistol. Because he could have walked away at any time. Because he was not forced to shoot Emily Gold." She stopped at the exhibit table and picked up the murder weapon. "After all, ladies and gentlemen, no one was holding a gun to Chris's head."
BY SIX P.M., the jury had not returned a verdict. Chris was brought back to the jail to sleep. He sloughed off his clothes and crawled under the covers, refusing dinner, refusing to speak to anyone who banged on the bars of his cell.
A backbeat pounded at the base of his skull--the one thing that neither Jordan McAfee nor Barrie Delaney had mentioned. Maybe it wasn't important to them; Chris himself certainly hadn't thought about it until Jordan had jogged his memory of that night for what it really was. And it had to do with Emily.
She had loved him. He knew this; he had never doubted it. But she had also asked him to kill her.
If you loved someone that much, you did not lay that sort of burden on him for the rest of his life.
Chris had struggled with it, had decided that loving Emily meant letting her go, if that was really what she wanted. But Emily had been so selfish, she'd never even given Chris the choice. She had bound him to her irrevocably, with shame, with pain, and with guilt.
The sounds of an inmate fight breaking out one floor below and the jangle of an officer's keys were swallowed by a rage that swelled and roared in Chris's ears. In that moment, he was furious at Emily for doing this to him. For putting her own wishes before his, when he'd done the exact opposite.
For landing him in this stinking hole for seven months, seven months that he was never going to get back. For not telling him about the baby. For leaving him behind. For ruining his life.
And in that moment Chris realized that, had Emily Gold been present, he would have willfully killed her.
SELENA PUSHED AWAY her empty wine glass. "It's over," she said. "You can't change anything, now."
"I could have--"
"No," she told Jordan. "You couldn't."
He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, the nearly untouched steak stretched on a platter in front of him. "I hate this part," he said. "Waiting. It would have been cheaper for the taxpayers if they'd just handed me a hara-kiri sword and told me to do the honors."
Selena burst out laughing. "Jordan, you're such an optimist," she said. "One little glitch isn't going to ruin your career."
"I don't care about my career."
"What is it, then?" She studied him, her mouth rounding. "Oh ... Chris."
He scrubbed the heels of his hands over his face. "You know what I can't get out of my head?" he said. "That part when Chris was on the stand, and said he could still feel Emily touch him sometimes. And I told him to cut the crap."
"You had to, Jordan."
He waved her words off, dismissive. "It's not that. It's that I'm more than twice as old as Chris Harte, and I've been married, and I've still never felt that way. Gut feeling--do I think he killed that girl? Yeah, I do. Technically, anyway. But Jesus, Selena. I'm jealous of him. I can't imagine loving someone so much you'd do anything they asked. Even if that happened to be murder."
"You'd do anything for Thomas," Selena said.
"It's not the same, and you know it."
For a moment, Selena was silent. "Don't be jealous of Chris Harte. Feel sorry for him. Because the chances of him getting that close to someone again ar
e very slim. You, on the other hand, still have everything to look forward to."
Jordan shrugged, steepling his fingers. "Whatever," he said.
Selena sighed and drew him to his feet. "Time to get home," she said. "You have an early day tomorrow." And then, in the middle of the restaurant, she grabbed his ears in her hands and gently tugged his head forward so that she could kiss him.
Her mouth was hard on his, and her tongue slid easily between his lips. By the time Selena drew away, Jordan was fighting for breath. "What," he said, "made you do that?"
She patted his cheek. "Just wanted to give you something else to obsess about," she said, and turned on her heel, leaving him to follow.
BY NINE O'CLOCK, the Hartes were ready for bed. There was no other way Gus could think of to make the morning come more quickly. She shut the light off and waited for James to come out of the bathroom.
The mattress creaked and dipped as James got under the covers. Gus turned her head away, staring out the window, where the moon was fingernail-thin. By the time it was full again, her firstborn would be serving a life sentence at the State Penitentiary.
She knew why Chris had interrupted her testimony, just as well as she knew that she'd been doing a miserable job. He couldn't watch her on the stand, each lie splitting her heart into a set of Russian nesting dolls, growing smaller and smaller until there was nothing left inside. Chris had never been able to bear seeing someone he loved in great pain.
It was why he had shot Emily.
She must have made a sound, an involuntary sob, because all of a sudden James drew her against his chest. Gus turned into the solid heat of him, wrapping her arms around him.
She wanted to get closer, under James's skin; to become a part of him so that she wouldn't have her own thoughts, her own worries. She wanted his strength. But instead of speaking she turned her face up and kissed him, her mouth raining over his neck and her hips pressing into his.
The bed, the room, was burning up around them. They scratched at each other in an effort to come together. James entered Gus within seconds, her body convulsing around his, her mind blessedly, blissfully empty.