The Jodi Picoult Collection #4 Read online

  “Did she ever tell you that you couldn’t speak with her son?”

  “No,” Matson says.

  “Did the defendant tell you that he didn’t want to speak with you?”

  “No.”

  “Did he give you any indication on that first day you met that he didn’t understand what you were saying, or who you were?”

  “He knew exactly who I was,” Matson replies. “He wanted to talk about forensics.”

  “What did you discuss during that initial meeting?”

  “I asked him if he’d seen Jess for his appointment, and he said no. He also told me that he knew Jess’s boyfriend, Mark. That was pretty much it. I left my card with his mother and said that she should give a call if anything else came up, or if Jacob remembered something.”

  “How long did this conversation last?”

  “I don’t know; all together five minutes maybe?” Matson says.

  The prosecutor nods. “When did you next learn that Jacob Hunt knew something more about this case?”

  “His mother called and said Jacob had some new information about Jess Ogilvy. Apparently he’d forgotten to tell us that, when he was at her house, waiting for her, he tidied up some things and alphabetized the CDs. The victim’s boyfriend had mentioned that the CDs had been reorganized, and that made me want to talk to Jacob some more.”

  “Did Jacob’s mother tell you he wouldn’t understand you if you asked him questions?”

  “She said that he might have trouble understanding questions that were phrased a certain way.”

  “During that second conversation, did Jacob say he didn’t want to talk to you, or that he didn’t understand your questions?”

  “No.”

  “Did the defendant’s mother have to translate for him, or tell you to rephrase your questions?”

  “No.”

  “And how long did this second conversation last?”

  “Ten minutes, tops.”

  “Did you have another conversation with Jacob Hunt?” Helen asks.

  “Yes, the afternoon after we discovered Jess Ogilvy’s body in the culvert.”

  “Where did that conversation with the defendant take place?”

  “The police station.”

  “Why did Jacob come in to speak to you again?”

  “His mother called me,” Matson says. “She was very upset because she believed her son had something to do with the murder of Jess Ogilvy.”

  Suddenly Jacob stands up and faces the gallery, so that he can see Emma. “You thought that?” he asks, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

  Emma looks like she’s been hit in the stomach. She looks at me for help, but before I can do or say anything, the judge smacks his gavel. “Mr. Bond, control your client.”

  Jacob starts flapping his left hand. “I need a sensory break!”

  Immediately, I nod. “Your Honor, we need a recess.”

  “Fine. Take five minutes,” the judge says, and he leaves the bench.

  The minute he’s gone, Emma steps over the bar. “Jacob, listen to me.”

  But Jacob’s not listening; he’s emitting a high-pitched hum that has Helen Sharp covering her ears. “Jacob,” Emma repeats, and she puts her hands on either side of his face, forcing him to face her. He closes his eyes.

  “I shot the sheriff,” Emma sings, “but I didn’t shoot the deputy. I shot the sheriff, but I did not shoot the deputy. Reflexes got the better of me . . . and what is to be must be.”

  The bailiff standing in the room shoots her a dirty glance, but the tension melts out of Jacob’s shoulders. “Every day the bucket a-go a well,” he sings, in his flat monotone. “One day the bottom a-go drop out.”

  “That’s it, baby,” Emma murmurs.

  Helen is watching every move, her mouth slightly agape. “Gee,” she says, “my kid only knows the words to ‘Candy Man.’ ”

  “Hell of a song to be singing when you’re on trial for murder,” the bailiff mutters.

  “Do not listen to him,” Emma says. “You listen to me. I believe you. I believe you didn’t do it.”

  Interestingly, she doesn’t look Jacob in the eye when she says this. Now, he’d never have noticed—since he’s not looking her in the eye, either. But by Emma’s own reasoning with the detective, if you assume that someone who doesn’t look you in the eye is either lying or on the autism spectrum—and Emma isn’t on the autism spectrum—what does that imply?

  Before I can interpret this any further, the judge comes back, and Helen and Rich Matson take their places again. “Your only job here is to stay cool,” I whisper to Jacob, as I lead him back to the defense table. And then I watch him take a piece of paper, fold it into an accordion pleat, and begin to fan himself.

  “How did Jacob get to the police station?” Helen asks.

  “His mother brought him down.”

  Jacob fans a little faster.

  “Was he placed under arrest?”

  “No,” the detective says.

  “Was he brought in a cruiser?”

  “No.”

  “Did a police officer accompany his mother to the police department?”

  “No. She brought her son in voluntarily.”

  “What did you say when you saw him there?”

  “I asked if he could help me with some cases.”

  “What was his response?”

  “He was extremely excited and very willing to go with me,” Matson says.

  “Did he indicate that he wanted to have his mother in the room, or that he wasn’t comfortable without her?”

  “To the contrary—he said he wanted to help me.”

  “Where did the interview take place?”

  “In my office. I started to ask him about the crime scene he’d crashed a week earlier, which involved a man who died of hypothermia. Then I told him I’d really like to pick his brain about Jess Ogilvy’s case, but that it was a little trickier, since it was still an open investigation. I said he’d have to waive his rights to not discuss it, and Jacob quoted me Miranda. I read along as he recited it verbatim, and then I asked him to read over it and initial it and sign at the bottom so that I knew he understood, and hadn’t just memorized some random words.”

  “Was he able to answer your questions intelligibly?” Helen asks.

  “Yes.”

  Helen offers the Miranda form into evidence. “No further questions, Your Honor,” she says.

  I stand up and button my suit jacket. “Detective, the very first time you met with Jacob, his mother was there, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she stay the entire time?”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “Great,” I say. “How about the second time you met with Jacob? Was his mother there?”

  “Yes.”

  “In fact, she’s the one who brought him to the station at your request, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But when she asked you if she could stay with him, you refused?”

  “Well, yeah,” Matson says. “Since her son is eighteen.”

  “Yes, but you were also aware that Jacob is on the autism spectrum, isn’t that true?”

  “It is, but nothing he’d said previously had led me to believe he couldn’t be interrogated.”

  “Still, his mother told you he had a hard time with questions. That he got confused under pressure, and that he couldn’t really understand subtleties of language,” I say.

  “She explained something about Asperger’s syndrome, but I didn’t pay a lot of attention to it. He seemed perfectly capable to me. He knew every legal term imaginable, for God’s sake, and he was more than happy to talk.”

  “Detective, when you told Jacob what happens during an autopsy, didn’t he quote Silence of the Lambs to you?”

  Matson shifts in his chair. “Yes.”

  “Does that indicate that he really understood what he was doing?”

  “I figured he was trying to be funny.”

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