The Jodi Picoult Collection #4 Read online

  If you have spent any time in a courtroom, you’ll know that high school football players—the mean ones with no necks—grow up and become bailiffs. Two of these behemoths are manhandling Jacob, who’s doing his damnedest to get the hell away from them. He keeps craning his neck, looking at the people in the courtroom, and as soon as he spots Emma, his entire body sags with relief.

  I stand up, heading down from the gallery, because it’s showtime, and realize too late that Emma’s following me. “You have to stay here,” I whisper over my shoulder as I take my place at the defendant’s table beside my client.

  “Hi,” I say to Jacob under my breath. “My name’s Oliver. Your mom hired me to be your lawyer, and I’ve got it all under control. Don’t say anything to the judge. Just let me do the talking.”

  The whole time I’m speaking, Jacob is looking at his lap. The minute I finish, he twists in his seat. “Mom,” he calls out, “what’s going on?”

  “Counselor,” the bigger bailiff says, “either shut your client up or he’s going back in the holding cell.”

  “I just told you not to talk to anybody,” I tell Jacob.

  “You told me not to say anything to the judge.”

  “You can’t talk to anybody,” I clarify. “Do you understand?”

  Jacob glances down at the table.

  “Jacob? Hello?”

  “You told me not to talk to anybody,” he mutters. “Will you make up your mind already?”

  Judge Cuttings is a hard-boiled New Englander who, in his time off, runs a llama farm and who, in my opinion, looks a little like a llama himself. He has just announced Jacob’s name when Dorothy the clerk enters through a side door and passes him a note. Looking down his long nose at it, he sighs. “I have two arraignments for Mr. Robichaud that need to be done in another courtroom. Since he’s currently here with his clients, I’ll do those first, and then we’ll take the prisoner’s case.”

  The minute he says the word prisoner, Jacob jumps to his feet. “I need a sensory break,” he announces.

  “Shut up,” I murmur.

  “I need a sensory break!”

  Dozens of thoughts are running through my mind: How do I get the kid to stop talking? How do I get the judge to forget everything that’s unfolding before his eyes? How would a seasoned lawyer handle a situation like this, when a client becomes a loose cannon? How long before I am seasoned enough to stop second-guessing myself?

  The minute Jacob takes a step, the two bailiffs are on top of him. He starts screaming, a high, keening sound. “Let go of him!” Emma shrieks behind me. “He doesn’t understand! He’s allowed to get up in school when things are overwhelming—”

  “This isn’t school,” the judge thunders. “This is my courtroom, and you, madam, will be leaving it.”

  The second bailiff releases Jacob and steps into the gallery to pull Emma outside. “I can explain,” she cries, but her voice gets fainter as she’s forced down the aisle.

  I look from her to my client, who has gone boneless and is being dragged out a different door. “Take your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty ape!” Jacob yells.

  The judge narrows his eyes at me.

  “It’s from Planet of the Apes,” I mutter.

  “I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take this anymore,” he replies. “That’s from Network. I highly recommend you watch the movie after you get your client under control.”

  I duck my head and hurry down the aisle. Emma stands outside the courtroom door, flushed and angry, her eyes shooting daggers at the bailiff. “Your kid can wait till the courtroom’s empty,” he says to me. “That’s when we’ll arraign him. And the mother can’t come back inside until then.”

  He enters the courtroom again; the door opens with a gasp. That leaves me standing alone in the hallway with Emma, who grabs my hand and pulls me toward the staircase. “What . . . what are you doing?”

  “He’s down there, isn’t he? Come on.”

  “Hold it.” I dig in my heels and fold my arms. “What was that all about?”

  “I hate to say I told you so, but I told you so. That’s Asperger’s. Sometimes Jacob seems totally normal—brilliant, even—and sometimes the tiniest thing can set him off into a full-fledged fit.”

  “Well, he can’t behave like that in a courtroom. I thought he knew all about crime scenes and cops and the law. He has to be respectful and quiet or this will be disastrous.”

  “He’s trying,” Emma insists. “That’s why he asked for a sensory break.”

  “A what?”

  “A place he can go to away from all the noise and confusion, so that he can calm himself down. At school, that’s one of the special accommodations he gets . . . Look, can we talk about this later and just go see him?”

  Jacob was getting his sensory break . . . in a holding cell. “You aren’t allowed down there.”

  She flinches, as if I’ve struck her. “Well,” Emma says, “are you?”

  To be honest, I am not sure. I poke my head inside the courtroom. The bailiff stands just inside the door, arms folded. “Can I go talk to my client?” I whisper.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Go ahead.”

  I wait for him to take me to Jacob, but he doesn’t budge. “Thanks,” I say, and I duck out the door again and head past Emma, down the stairs.

  I hope that’s where the holding cells are.

  After five minutes of detours through the custodial closet and the boiler room, I find what I’m looking for. Jacob is sitting in the corner of this cell, one hand flapping like a bird, his shoulders hunched, his voice thready and singing Bob Marley.

  “How come you sing that song?” I ask, coming to stand in front of the bars.

  He pauses in the middle of the chorus. “It makes me feel better.”

  I consider this. “You know any Dylan?” When he doesn’t answer, I step forward. “Look, Jacob. I know you don’t know what’s going on. And to be honest, neither do I. I’ve never done this before. But we’re going to figure it out together. All you have to do is promise me one thing: Let me do the talking.” I wait for Jacob to nod, to acknowledge me, but it doesn’t happen. “Do you trust me?”

  “No,” he says. “I don’t.” Then he gets to his feet. “Will you give a message to my mom?”

  “Sure.”

  He curls his hands around the bars. His fingers are long, elegant. “Life is like a box of chocolates,” he whispers. “You never know what you’re gonna get.”

  I laugh, thinking the boy can’t be all that bad off if he’s able to joke around. But then I realize that he’s not kidding. “I’ll tell her,” I say.

  * * *

  When I return, Emma is pacing. “Is he okay?” she asks, the minute I turn the corner. “Was he responsive?”

  “Yes and yes,” I assure her. “Maybe Jacob’s stronger than you think he is.”

  “You’re basing this insight on the five minutes you’ve spent with him?” She rolls her eyes. “He has to eat by six. If he doesn’t—”

  “I’ll get him a snack from the vending machines.”

  “It can’t have caseins or glutens—”

  I have no freaking idea what that means. “Emma, you have to relax.”

  She rounds on me. “My older son, who’s autistic, has just been arrested for murder. He’s stuck in a jail cell somewhere in the basement, for God’s sake. Don’t you dare tell me to relax.”

  “Well, it won’t do Jacob any good if you lose it in the courtroom again.” When she doesn’t respond, I sit down on a bench across the hall. “He wanted me to tell you something.”

  The hope on her face is so naked that I have to look away.

  “Life is like a box of chocolates,” I quote.

  With a sigh, Emma sinks down beside me. “Forrest Gump. That’s one of his favorites.”

  “Movie buff?”

  “An intense one. It’s almost like he’s studying for a test he’ll have to take later.” She glances at me. “When he feels something