The Jodi Picoult Collection Read online

  He was a big man with no neck, a silver buzz cut, and glasses from the 1950s. In fact, Jack realized, it was entirely possible the superintendent had been sitting here, pushing papers, for half a century. “Mr. St. Bride,” the superintendent said, in a voice so feathery Jack had to strain to hear, “you’ve been charged with failing to follow the instructions of a correctional officer. Not an auspicious beginning.”

  Jack looked at a spot over the man’s shoulder. There was a calendar hanging behind the desk, the kind you get free from the bank. It was turned to March 1998, as if time had stopped. “From your past history, Mr. St. Bride, I’m sure you’re aware that transgressions that occur in a correctional facility . . . even minor ones . . . can have a significant effect on the sentence you receive if convicted. For example—this little tantrum of yours could add three to seven years to the time you’ll have to serve.” The superintendent folded his arms. “Do you have anything to say in your own defense?”

  “I’m not guilty of any crime. I don’t want to look like someone who is.”

  The superintendent’s mouth flattened. “Son,” he said quietly, “you don’t want to do this, believe me. This freedom-fighter angle doesn’t play well here. If you just keep your nose to the wheel and follow the rules, your stay will be a lot more pleasant.”

  Jack stared straight ahead.

  The older man sighed. “Mr. St. Bride, I find that you’re guilty of violating the rules of this facility by refusing to wear the required clothing, and you’re sentenced to spend three days in solitary.” He nodded to the two correctional officers. “Take him away.”

  The worst part about being a prosecutor, in Matt Houlihan’s opinion, was that even when you won, you didn’t. The world was too black and white for that. Even if he got Jack St. Bride locked up for twenty years, it didn’t take away the fact that this asshole, who’d been convicted before, had committed a crime again. It didn’t change the truth that Gillian Duncan would have to live with this memory for the rest of her life. It was like securing the bull after he’d careened through the china shop—yes, you could pen him for a little while, but you still incurred the cost of the mess he’d left in his wake.

  Matt had chosen to meet Amos Duncan and his daughter at their home. Normally, he didn’t make house calls, but he was willing to bend the rules. Inviting the girl into his office would only bring to the forefront the legal battle that lay ahead of her. Right now, it was in everyone’s best interests to keep Gillian calm, so that when Matt finally needed to call in his chip, she would respond the way he needed her to in front of the jury.

  He reached for a cup of coffee that Gillian handed him, and he took a sip as she sat down beside her father on the couch. “Excellent stuff. Kona?”

  Amos nodded. “Hi-test.”

  “The Jamaican blend is just as good. Of course, back at the office, we’re lucky to get watered-down Maxwell House.”

  “I will personally buy the county attorney’s office an espresso machine,” Amos vowed, “if you lock up this bastard.”

  Latching onto the segue, Matt nodded. “Mr. Duncan, I understand completely. And that’s why I’m here today. St. Bride has been charged with aggravated felonious sexual assault, which carries up to twenty years in the state penitentiary. I fully intend to ask for the maximum sentence. That means this case isn’t going to go away with a plea.”

  “Is he going to get out?”

  Matt did not pretend to misunderstand Amos. “St. Bride is being held without bail, so he’ll stay in jail until the trial. After his conviction, he’ll serve twenty years and then be on lifetime supervision. A third sexual assault offense will land him in prison for life.” He smiled mirthlessly. “So, no, Mr. Duncan. He’s not going to get out anytime soon.”

  Matt turned to Gillian. “Our office can get you in touch with rape crisis counselors, if you need that kind of support.”

  “We’ve taken care of that already,” Amos answered.

  “All right. We’re currently in the process of interviewing witnesses. Gillian, are there people that you can think of who would know something about last night?”

  Gillian looked at her father, who’d gotten up to pace. “The others, I guess. Whitney and Chelsea and Meg.”

  Matt nodded. “Detective Saxton will be speaking to them.”

  “What about the stuff from the hospital?” Amos asked. “Did you find anything?”

  “We won’t know for a couple of weeks, Mr. Duncan.”

  “Two weeks? That long?”

  “As long as we have lab results before we go to trial, we’re in good shape. I’m confident that we’ll find physical evidence to support Gillian’s testimony.”

  “My testimony?”

  Matt nodded. “I’m going to have to put you on the stand.”

  She immediately started to shake her head. “I don’t think I can do that.”

  “You can. We’ll go over your testimony; there won’t be any surprises.”

  Gillian’s hands twisted the bottom of her sweater. “But what about the other lawyer? You don’t know what he’s going to ask.” A bright thought swelled in her mind. “If something from the lab proves he was there, do I still have to testify?”

  This was a very common reaction for a rape victim, and even more common for a teenager. Smoothly, Matt said, “Don’t worry about it now. I don’t have all the evidence yet. I don’t have all the police reports. I don’t have all the witness statements. Just let me do my job, let Detective Saxton do his . . . and then we’ll put together the best possible case we can.” Matt hesitated. “There is one thing I need to know,” he said. “Gillian, I have to ask you if you were a virgin before this happened.”

  Gillian’s gaze flew to her father, who had stopped in his tracks. “Mr. Houlihan . . .”

  “I’m sorry. But the answer’s important.”

  Her eyes were fixed on her father as she murmured, “No.”

  Amos stood and walked away, gathering his composure. “I want to help with the investigation,” he announced suddenly, changing the topic.

  The statement seemed to take his daughter by as much surprise as it did Matt. “Thank you for the offer. But it’s best to let the professionals take care of the details, Mr. Duncan. The last thing you want is to have St. Bride freed on a technicality.”

  “Do I get to see it?” Amos demanded.

  “See what?”

  “The reports. The police statements. The DNA evidence.”

  “During the course of this trial,” Matt said, “I’ll make sure you know everything I know after I know it, as soon as possible. I’ll show you anything you want to see.”

  That appeased Amos. He nodded stiffly.

  But Matt was more concerned with Gillian, who still seemed tangled in the unexpected realization that she would have to get on the stand. “Gillian,” he said softly. “I’ll take care of you. Promise.”

  The lines in her forehead smoothed, and she smiled tentatively. “Thanks.”

  Amos sat down again and slid his arm around his daughter, as if to remind her that he was there to help her, too. Matt looked away, to give them a moment of privacy. And he made a fierce vow to himself to put his entire self on the line for the Duncans, if only so that they could have back a fraction of the life they’d had before Jack St. Bride entered it.

  The last time Gilly had been in Dr. Horowitz’s office, she’d been nine years old. She remembered playing with dolls while Dr. Horowitz wrote in a notebook. And that the psychiatrist had always given her mint Milano cookies when the sessions were over. One day, her father decided that Gillian had put to rest her mother’s death, and she stopped going for her weekly sessions.

  “Gillian,” Dr. Horowitz said. “It’s been a while.”

  Dr. Horowitz was now two inches shorter than Gillian. Her hair had gone gray at the temples, and she wore bifocals on a beaded chain. She looked old, and this shocked Gilly—if all this time had passed for Dr. Horowitz, it meant that it had passed for her as well. �