The Jodi Picoult Collection #2 Read online

  I look at Julia again. “We’re here today because there’s a difference in our system of justice between what’s legal and what’s moral. Sometimes it’s easy to tell them apart. But every now and then, especially when they rub up against each other, right sometimes looks wrong, and wrong sometimes looks right.” I walk back to my seat, and stand in front of it. “We’re here today,” I finish, “so that this Court can help us all see a little more clearly.”

  • • •

  My first witness is opposing counsel. I watch Sara walk to the stand unsteadily, a sailor getting her sea legs again. She manages to get herself into the seat and be sworn in without ever breaking her gaze away from Anna.

  “Judge, I’d like permission to treat Mrs. Fitzgerald as a hostile witness.”

  The judge frowns. “Mr. Alexander, I truly would hope that both you and Mrs. Fitzgerald can stand to be civilized, here.”

  “Understood, Your Honor.” I walk toward Sara. “Can you state your name?”

  She lifts her chin a fraction. “Sara Crofton Fitzgerald.”

  “You are the mother of the minor child Anna Fitzgerald?”

  “Yes. And also of Kate and Jesse.”

  “Isn’t it true that your daughter Kate was diagnosed with acute promyelocytic leukemia at age two?”

  “That’s right.”

  “At that time did you and your husband decide to conceive a child who would be genetically programmed to be an organ donor for Kate, so that she could be cured?”

  Sara’s face hardens. “Not the words I would choose, but that was the story behind Anna’s conception, yes. We were planning to use Anna’s umbilical cord blood for a transplant.”

  “Why didn’t you try to find an unrelated donor?”

  “It’s much more dangerous. The risk of mortality would have been far higher with someone who wasn’t related to Kate.”

  “So how old was Anna when she first donated an organ or tissue to her sister?”

  “Kate had the transplant a month after Anna was born.”

  I shake my head. “I didn’t ask when Kate received it; I asked when Anna donated it. The cord blood was taken from Anna moments after birth, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes,” Sara says, “but Anna wasn’t even aware of it.”

  “How old was Anna the next time she donated some body part to Kate?”

  Sara winces, just as I have expected. “She was five when she gave donor lymphocytes.”

  “What does that involve?”

  “Drawing blood from the crooks of her arms.”

  “Did Anna agree to let you put a needle in her arm?”

  “She was five years old,” Sara answers.

  “Did you ask her if you could put a needle in her arm?”

  “I asked her to help her sister.”

  “Isn’t it true that someone had to physically hold Anna down to get the needle in her arm?”

  Sara looks at Anna, closes her eyes. “Yes.”

  “Do you call that voluntary participation, Mrs. Fitzgerald?” From the corner of my eye I can see Judge DeSalvo’s brows draw together. “The first time you took lymphocytes from Anna, were there any side effects?”

  “She had some bruising. Some tenderness.”

  “How long was it before you took blood again?”

  “A month.”

  “Did she have to be held down that time, too?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “What were her side effects then?”

  “The same.” Sara shakes her head. “You don’t understand. It wasn’t like I didn’t see what was happening to Anna, every time she underwent a procedure. It doesn’t matter which of your children you see in that situation—every single time, it breaks you apart.”

  “And yet, Mrs. Fitzgerald, you managed to get past that sentiment,” I say, “because you took blood from Anna a third time.”

  “It took that long to get all the lymphocytes,” Sara says. “It’s not an exact procedure.”

  “How old was Anna the next time she had to undergo medical treatment for her sister’s well-being?”

  “When Kate was nine she got a raging infection and—”

  “Again, that’s not what I asked. I want to know what happened to Anna when she was six.”

  “She donated granulocytes to fight Kate’s infection. It’s a process a lot like a lymphocyte donation.”

  “Another needle stick?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you ask her if she was willing to donate the granulocytes?”

  Sara doesn’t answer. “Mrs. Fitzgerald,” the judge prompts.

  She turns toward her daughter, pleading. “Anna, you know we never did any of these things to hurt you. It hurt all of us. If you got the bruises on the outside, then we got them on the inside.”

  “Mrs. Fitzgerald,” I step between her and Anna. “Did you ask her?”

  “Please don’t do this,” Sara says. “We all know the history. I’ll stipulate to whatever it is you’re trying to do in the process of crucifying me. I’d rather just get this part over with.”

  “Because it’s hard to hear it hashed out again, isn’t it?” I know I’m walking a fine line, but behind me there is Anna, and I want her to know that someone here is willing to go the distance for her. “Added up like this, it doesn’t seem quite so innocuous, does it?”

  “Mr. Alexander, what is the point of this?” Judge DeSalvo says. “I am well aware of the number of procedures Anna’s undergone.”

  “Because we have Kate’s medical history, Your Honor, not Anna’s.”

  Judge DeSalvo looks between us. “Be brief, Counselor.”

  I turn to Sara. “Bone marrow,” she says woodenly, before I can ask the question. “She was put under general anesthesia because she was so young, and needles were put into the crests of her hips to draw out the marrow.”

  “Was it one needle stick, like the other procedures?”

  “No,” Sara says quietly. “It was about fifteen.”

  “Into the bone?”

  “Yes.”

  “What were the side effects for Anna this time around?”

  “She had some pain, and was given some analgesics.”

  “So this time, Anna had to be hospitalized overnight . . . and she needed medication herself?”

  Sara takes a minute to compose herself. “I was told that donating marrow isn’t considered a particularly invasive procedure for a donor. Maybe I was just waiting to hear those words; maybe I needed to hear them at that time. And maybe I was not thinking as much of Anna as I should have been, because I was so focused on Kate. But I know beyond a doubt that—like everyone else in our family—Anna wanted nothing more than for her sister to be cured.”

  “Well, sure,” I reply, “so that you’d stop sticking needles in her.”

  “Enough, Mr. Alexander,” Judge DeSalvo interjects.

  “Wait,” Sara interrupts. “I have something to say.” She turns to me. “You think you can lay it all out in words, black-and-white, as if it’s that easy. But you only represent one of my daughters, Mr. Alexander, and only in this courtroom. I represent both of them equally, everywhere, every place. I love both of them equally, everywhere, every place.”

  “But you admitted that you’ve always considered Kate’s health, not Anna’s, in making these choices,” I point out. “So how can you claim to love both of them equally? How can you say that you haven’t been favoring one child in your decisions?”

  “Aren’t you asking me to do that very thing?” Sara asks. “Only this time, to favor the other child?”

  ANNA

  WHEN YOU ARE A KID you have your own language, and unlike French or Spanish or whatever you start learning in fourth grade, this one you’re born with, and eventually lose. Everyone under the age of seven is fluent in Ifspeak; go hang around with someone under three feet tall and you’ll see. What if a giant funnelweb spider crawled out of that hole over your head and bit you on the neck? What if the only antidote for