The Jodi Picoult Collection #4 Read online

  I want to hate Meg, but I can’t. She immediately surprises me by linking her arm through mine and leading me into the house. “You must have been worried sick,” she says. “I know I would have been.”

  She offers me coffee and a slice of lemon–poppy seed cake while Theo and Henry vanish deeper into the house. I wonder if the cake was just lying around, if she is the sort of mother who makes sure there is a homemade baked good at all times on the kitchen counter, or if she’d popped it in the oven after Henry told her I was coming. I’m not quite sure which image upsets me more.

  Her daughters (well, Henry’s, too) dart across the living room threshold to get a peek at me. They are sprites, little towheaded fairies. One of them wears a pink sequined tutu. “Girls,” Meg says. “Come on in here and meet Ms. Hunt.”

  “Emma,” I say automatically. I wonder what these little girls make of a stranger who has the same last name they do. I wonder if Henry has ever explained me to them.

  “This is Isabella,” Meg says, lightly touching the taller girl on the crown of her head. “And this is Grace.”

  “Hello,” they chime, and Grace pops her thumb in her mouth.

  “Hi,” I answer, and then I don’t know what to say.

  Did Henry feel there was some balance to his second life, having two girls instead of two boys? Grace tugs on her mother’s shirt and whispers in her ear. “She wants to show you what she does in ballet,” Meg says apologetically.

  “Oh, I love ballet,” I say.

  Grace puts her arms in the air and touches her fingertips together. She begins to turn in a circle, wobbling only a little. I clap for her.

  Jacob used to spin. It was one of his stims, when he was little. He’d go faster and faster until he crashed into something, usually a vase or another breakable item.

  I already know it’s not true by looking at her, but if little Grace turned out to be autistic, would Henry run away again?

  As if I’ve conjured him, Henry ducks into the room. “You were right,” he says to me. “He won’t talk without you there.” Whatever small satisfaction this gives me vanishes as Grace sees her father. She stops spinning and hurls herself at him with the force of a tropical storm. He lifts her into his arms and then tousles Isabella’s hair. There is an ease to Henry that I have not seen in him before, a quiet confidence that this is where he belongs. I can see it etched on his face, in the tiny lines that now fan out from his eyes, lines that were not there when I loved him.

  Meg takes Grace on her hip and grasps Isabella’s hand. “Let’s give Daddy a chance to talk to his friends,” she says.

  Friends. I loved him; I created children with him, and this is what we have been demoted to.

  I follow Henry down a corridor to the room where Theo is waiting. “Your family,” I say. “They’re perfect.” But what I’m really saying is, Why didn’t I deserve this with you?

  Oliver

  “Well, Mr. Bond,” the judge says. “Here you are again.”

  “Like a bad penny,” I reply, smiling.

  Jacob and I are in court again, this time without Emma. She had called late last night and left a message saying that she and Theo would be flying home today. I hoped to have good news for her when she arrived; God knows she would need some by then.

  The judge glances over the half-moons of his glasses. “We’ve got a motion before the court for accommodations during the trial of Jacob Hunt. What are you looking for, Counselor?”

  Sympathy for a client who is incapable of showing any himself . . . but I can’t admit that. After Jacob’s last outburst in court, I thought about asking the judge to let him watch the proceedings from a separate room, but I need him in full view of the jury in order to make my defense work. If I’m playing the disability card, they have to be able to see Asperger’s manifesting itself in its full glory. “First, Your Honor,” I say, “Jacob needs sensory breaks. You’ve seen how he can get agitated by courtroom procedure—he has to be able to get up and leave the courtroom when he feels the need to do so. Second, he would like to have his mother sitting at the defense table beside him. Third, due to Jacob’s sensitivity to stimuli, we ask that Your Honor not use his gavel during the proceedings, and that the lights be turned down in the courtroom. Fourth, the prosecution needs to ask questions in a very direct and literal manner—”

  “For God’s sake,” Helen Sharp sighs.

  I glance at her but keep talking. “Fifth, we request that the length of the day in court be abbreviated.”

  The judge shakes his head. “Ms. Sharp, I’m quite sure you have objections to those requests?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. I don’t have a problem with numbers one, three, and five, but the others are absolutely prejudicial.”

  “Mr. Bond,” the judge says, “why are you asking for your client’s mother to sit at counsel table?”

  “Well, Your Honor, you’ve seen Jacob’s outbursts. Emma Hunt serves as a coping mechanism for him. I think that, given the stress of a court experience, having his mother beside him would be beneficial to all involved.”

  “And yet, Ms. Hunt is not with us today,” the judge points out. “But the defendant seems to be faring well.”

  “Ms. Hunt wanted to be here, but there has been a . . . family emergency,” I say. “And in terms of stress, there’s a huge difference between coming to court for a motion and coming for a full-blown murder trial.”

  “Ms. Sharp,” the judge asks, “what is the basis for your objection to having the defendant’s mother sit at counsel table?”

  “It’s twofold, Your Honor. There’s a concern about how to explain to the jury the defendant’s mother’s presence there. She’s testifying as a witness, so she will clearly be identified as the defendant’s mother, and as the court well knows, it is not good protocol to allow anyone other than the attorney and clients to sit at counsel table. Giving her the elevated position at table awards her more importance in the eyes of the jury, and it becomes an unexplained incident that negatively impacts the State. Moreover, we’ve heard all too often that the defendant’s mother interprets for him. She intervenes at his school with teachers, with strangers, with police officers. She’s the one who burst into the station and told the detective she had to be present at the interrogation. Judge, what’s to prevent her from writing an entire script for Jacob and passing it to him or whispering in his ear during the course of the trial to coach him into saying or doing something inappropriate and prejudicial?”

  I stare at her for a moment. She’s really good.

  “Mr. Bond? How do you respond?” the judge asks.

  “Judge, Jacob’s mother’s presence at counsel table is the equivalent of having a Seeing Eye dog for a defendant who’s blind. The jury will understand if told that it’s not just an animal in the courtroom—it’s a necessity, an accommodation being made for the defendant because of his disability. Jacob’s mother, and her proximity to him during the trial, can be explained the same way,” I say. “What you’re ruling on today, Judge, is what accommodations need to be made to ensure that my client has a fair trial. That right, and those accommodations, are assured to him pursuant to the Americans with Disabilities Act and, even more important, pursuant to the Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh Amendments of the United States Constitution. Does this mean giving Jacob some minor concessions that other defendants don’t get in court? Yes, because those other defendants don’t have to deal with the crippling inability to communicate effectively and to interact with other people like Jacob does. For them, a trial is not a gigantic mountain standing between them and freedom, without even having the most basic tools with which they can begin climbing.”

  I glance surreptitiously at the judge and make the snap decision to tone it down a little. “So how do we explain Jacob’s mother’s position to the jury? Easy. We say that the judge has given her a right to sit at counsel table. We say that this isn’t usual practice, but in this case she has a right to sit there. As for her role in the trial, Your Honor, I will