The Jodi Picoult Collection #3 Read online

  Frustrated, she stood up and walked into her clerk’s office. Twice, before the trial began, she’d called on Eleanor for trivial things, hoping that instead of hearing “Yes, Your Honor,” the clerk would let down her guard and ask Alex how she was doing, how Josie was doing. That for a half a moment, she wouldn’t be a judge to someone, just another parent who’d had the scare of a lifetime.

  “I need a cigarette,” Alex said. “I’m going downstairs.”

  Eleanor glanced up. “All right, Your Honor.”

  Alex, she thought. Alex Alex Alex.

  Outside, Alex sat down on the cement block near the loading zone and lit a cigarette. She drew in deeply, closed her eyes.

  “Those’ll kill you, you know.”

  “So will old age,” Alex replied, and she turned around to see Patrick Ducharme.

  He turned his face up to the sun, squinted. “I wouldn’t have expected a judge to have vices.”

  “You probably think we sleep under the bench, too.”

  Patrick grinned. “Well, that would be just plain silly. There’s not enough room for a mattress.”

  She held out the pack. “Be my guest.”

  “If you want to corrupt me, there are more interesting ways.”

  Alex felt her face flame. He hadn’t just said that, had he? To a judge? “If you don’t smoke, why’d you come out here?”

  “To photosynthesize. When I’m stuck in court all day it ruins my feng shui.”

  “People don’t have feng shui. Places do.”

  “Do you know that for a fact?”

  Alex hesitated. “Well. No.”

  “There you go.” He turned to her, and for the first time she noticed that he had a white streak in his hair, right at the widow’s peak. “You’re staring.”

  Alex immediately jerked her gaze away.

  “It’s all right,” Patrick said, laughing. “It’s albinism.”

  “Albinism?”

  “Yeah, you know. Pale skin, white hair. It’s recessive, so I got a skunk streak. I’m one gene away from looking like a rabbit.” He faced her, sobering. “How’s Josie?”

  She considered putting up that Chinese wall, telling him she didn’t want to talk about anything that could compromise her case. But Patrick Ducharme had done the one thing Alex had wished for—he’d treated her like a person instead of a public figure. “She went back to school,” Alex confided.

  “I know. I saw her.”

  “You . . . Were you there?”

  Patrick shrugged. “Yeah. Just in case.”

  “Did anything happen?”

  “No,” he said. “It was . . . ordinary.”

  The word hung between them. Nothing was going to be ordinary again, and both of them knew it. You could patch up whatever was broken, but if you were the one who had fixed it, you’d always know in your heart where the fault lines lay.

  “Hey,” Patrick said, touching her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  She realized, mortified, that she was crying. Wiping her eyes, Alex moved out of his reach.

  “There’s nothing wrong with me,” she said, daring Patrick to challenge her.

  He opened his mouth as if he was about to speak, but then snapped it shut. “I’ll leave you to your vices, then,” he said, and walked back inside.

  It wasn’t until Alex was back in chambers that she realized the detective had used the plural. That he’d not only caught her smoking, but also lying.

  * * *

  There were new rules: All the doors except for the main entrance would be locked after school began, even though a shooter who was a student might already be inside. No backpacks were allowed in classrooms anymore, although a gun could be sneaked in under a coat or in a purse or even in a zippered three-ring binder. Everyone—students and staff—would get ID cards to wear around their necks. It was supposed to make everyone accountable, but Josie couldn’t help but wonder if this way, next time, it would be easier to tell who’d been killed.

  The principal got on the loudspeaker during homeroom and welcomed everyone back to Sterling High, even if it wasn’t Sterling High. He suggested a moment of silence.

  While other kids in her homeroom bowed their heads, Josie glanced around. She was not the only one who wasn’t praying. Some kids were passing notes. A couple were listening to their iPods. A guy was copying someone else’s math notes.

  She wondered if they, like her, were afraid to honor the dead, because it made them feel more guilty.

  Josie shifted, banging her knee against the desk. The desks and chairs that had been brought back to this makeshift school were for little children, not high school refugees. As a result, nobody fit. Josie’s knees were bent up to her chin. Some kids couldn’t even sit at the desks; they had to write with their binders on their laps.

  I am Alice in Wonderland, Josie thought. Watch me fall.

  * * *

  Jordan waited for his client to sit down across from him in the conference room of the jail. “Tell me about your brother, Peter,” he said.

  He scrutinized Peter’s face—saw the disappointment flash across it as he realized that Jordan had again unearthed something he’d hoped would stay hidden. “What about him?” Peter replied.

  “You two get along?”

  “I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “I wasn’t.” Jordan shrugged. “I’m just surprised you didn’t mention him earlier.”

  Peter glared at him. “Like when? When I was supposed to shut up at the arraignment? Or after that, when you came here and told me you were going to do all the talking and I was going to listen?”

  “What was he like?”

  “Look. Joey’s dead, which you obviously know. So I don’t really get why talking about him is going to help me.”

  “What happened to him?” Jordan pressed.

  Peter rubbed his thumbnail against the metal edging of the table. “He got his golden boy straight-A self rammed by a drunk driver.”

  “Hard to beat that,” Jordan said carefully.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, your brother is the perfect kid, right? That’s tough enough right there, but then he dies and turns into a saint.”

  Jordan had been playing devil’s advocate, to see if Peter would take the bait, and sure enough the boy’s face transformed. “You can’t beat it,” Peter said fiercely. “You can’t measure up.”

  Jordan tapped his pencil on the edge of his briefcase. Had Peter’s anger been born of jealousy or loneliness? Or was his massacre a way to turn attention to himself, finally, instead of Joey? How could he formulate a defense that Peter’s act was one of desperation, not an attempt to one-up his brother’s notoriety?

  “Do you miss him?” Jordan asked.

  Peter smirked. “My brother,” he said, “my brother, the captain of the baseball team; my brother who placed first in the state in a French competition; my brother who was friends with the principal; my brother, my fabulous brother, used to drop me off a half mile away from the gates of the high school so that he didn’t have to be seen driving all the way in with me.”

  “How come?”

  “You don’t exactly get any perks for hanging around with me, or haven’t you noticed yet.”

  Jordan had a flash of his car tires, slashed to their metal haunches. “Joey wouldn’t stick up for you if you were being bullied?”

  “Are you kidding? Joey was the one to start it.”

  “How?”

  Peter walked toward the window in the small room. A mottled flush rose up his neck, as if memory could be burned into the flesh. “He used to tell people I was adopted. That my mother was a crack whore, and that’s why my brain was all fucked up. Sometimes he did it right in front of me, and when I’d get pissed off and whale on him he’d just laugh and knock me on my ass and then he’d look back to his friends, as if this was proof of everything he’d been saying in the first place. So, do I miss him?” Peter repeated, and he faced Jordan. “I’m