The Jodi Picoult Collection #3 Read online

  I make sure not to look at Andrew when I speak. “Not guilty.”

  Andrew stiffens, whispering, “You told me—”

  Under my breath, I cut him off. “Not now.”

  The judge flips through some of the pages in the file. “I see that bail is set at million cash. I assume you want that continued, Ms. Wasserstein?” He glances toward the prosecutor, whom I haven’t even considered until this moment. A woman with curly brown hair twisted into a severe knot at the back of her neck, she has a mouth that looks like it has no muscle memory of ever striking a smile.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” she replies, and when she stands up I realize that she’s pregnant. Not just pregnant, mind you, but in the full throes of really-any-day-now-I-could-drop-this-baby condition. Great. So the prosecutor I’m cursed with is an impending mother, one with natural sympathies toward a woman whose child was snatched.

  “This is a kidnapping case of great importance to the State of Arizona,” she says, “and given that the defendant is an extreme flight risk, we feel there shouldn’t even be a question about whether or not bail should be continued.”

  I clear my throat and rise. “Your Honor, we’d really like you to rethink the bail question. My client has no criminal record whatsoever and—”

  “I beg to differ, Your Honor.” The prosecutor lifts a computerized record on fanfold paper, then lets it unfold to the floor. From the length of the document, you’d think Andrew Hopkins was the criminal of the century.

  “Would have been nice if you mentioned this,” I say through clenched teeth to Andrew. There is nothing worse for a defense attorney than having a prosecutor make a fool out of you. It makes your client look like a liar; it makes it seem as if you haven’t done your job.

  “The defendant has an assault conviction from December of 1976 . . . when he was known as Charles Edward Matthews.”

  The judge bangs his gavel. “I’ve heard enough of this. If one million was enough to hold the defendant in New Hampshire, then two million is enough to hold him in Arizona. Cash.”

  The bailiffs haul Andrew away from me, his chains jangling. “Where are you taking him?” I ask.

  The judge purses his lips. “It’s certainly not my job to tell you how to do yours, Mr. Talcott. Who do they have running those law schools in New Hampshire, anyway?”

  “I went to law school in Vermont,” I correct.

  The judge snorts. “Vermont’s just like New Hampshire, except upside-down. Next case?”

  I try to catch Andrew’s eye as he’s dragged off, but he doesn’t turn around. Chris pats me on the shoulder; until this moment, I’ve forgotten he’s even present. “That’s about as good as it gets here,” he commiserates.

  As we walk through the gate I notice the prosecutor speaking to an older couple. “What do you know about the county attorney?”

  “Emma Wasserstein? That she’ll probably eat her young. She’s one tough lady. I haven’t been up against her lately, but I doubt that pregnancy’s softened her at all.”

  I sigh. “I was kind of hoping it was just some enormous tumor.”

  Chris grins. “At least it can’t get any worse.”

  But at that moment, Emma Wasserstein turns around, guiding the couple she is speaking with out of the courtroom. They are well-dressed, nervous; they have the cloudy confusion about them of people unfamiliar with the legal system. The man is about fifty-five, dark-skinned, hesitant. He has his arm around the woman, who stumbles into the aisle and bumps into me. “Disculpeme,” she says.

  The raven hair, the freckles she cannot quite hide with powder, the very bones of her face: I step back to make way for the woman who could only be Delia’s mother.

  * * *

  Courthouses are full of sounds—the squeak of bailiff shoes, the quiet whisper of witnesses practicing testimony, the jangle of quarters, and the crank of the vending machines. But you rarely hear clapping, in spite of the fact that the best law is nothing more than a performance. So when I hear the applause, I find myself looking around to find its source. “Not your finest showing,” Fitz says, walking toward me. “But I’ll give you an eight out of ten because you’ve got a jet-lag handicap.”

  Just like that, I’m smiling from the inside out. “God, it’s good to see a friendly face.”

  “After the showdown with Medea in there, I’m not surprised. Where’s Delia?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “She called me to say Sophie was sick, but I couldn’t reach her.”

  “You mean she doesn’t know Andrew was arraigned?”

  “I didn’t even know until ten minutes ago,” I say.

  Fitz blinks at me. “She’s going to murder you.”

  I nod, and notice the memo pad sticking out of his pocket. Grabbing it, I flip through pages of notes from the arraignment. He’s not here for the moral support; he’s writing about this for the Gazette. “Only after she murders you,” I reply dryly.

  “Well,” Fitz says, ducking his head. “Want to be my roommate in Hell?”

  We start walking down the corridor. I have no idea where I’m headed; for all I know, this could be the hallway that leads back to the jail. “You ought to go see her,” I suggest. “We’re living in a trailer in Mesa that’s smaller than Greta’s cage at home.”

  “It’s got to be better than the motel the Gazette’s springing for. It’s conveniently located near Sky Harbor Airport. So near, in fact, that the toilet flushes every time a plane takes off.”

  I take my pen from my breast pocket and reach for Fitz’s hand, write the still-unfamiliar address down on his palm. “Tell her I’ll be home as soon as I can. Tell her to call me so I know how Sophie’s doing. And if you can work it into the conversation, feel free to break the news about the arraignment.”

  As I head down the hall, Fitz’s laughter follows me. “Coward,” he calls out.

  I look over my shoulder and grin. “Sucker,” I answer.

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, I am right back where I started: in the visiting room of the Madison Street Jail. Again, I’ve had to argue with the same woman at the entrance about my Bar card. Again, I’ve been told to wait while my client is brought to me. This time, however, he actually shows up. Andrew lets the detention officer close the door to our tiny conference room before exploding. “Not guilty?” he accuses.

  The job of a defense attorney is to act in the best interests of your client. But what if you think your client doesn’t have his best interests in mind? And what if, to complicate matters, your client wants something that will bring great pain to a woman for whom you would lay down your life? “For God’s sake, Andrew. I’d think one night in jail would be enough to convince you that you don’t want it as a permanent address.” His eyes flash, but he says nothing. “And how do you think Delia would handle that?” I add. “She was a mess after she saw you for just a half hour last night.”

  “Not for the reason you think, Eric. She hates me. She hates what I did to her.”

  Delia had been crying when she came home, but I hadn’t asked her why. I’d assumed it was a normal reaction to seeing the father she loved in the confines of a jail. I hadn’t asked; as her father’s attorney, I wasn’t supposed to . . . just as I am not supposed to reveal her thoughts about this trial to Andrew. “She’s the one who told me to plead you not guilty,” I confess. “She insisted upon it.”

  Andrew glances up at me. “Before or after she saw me last night?”

  I keep my eyes trained on his. “After,” I lie.

  Is there no end to this?

  He sinks down into the chair across from me, and I register for the first time the bruises on his forehead and jaw, the parallel scrape of nails along his neck. At the arraignment I was so busy looking at the judge I never really focused my attention on my client. He is quiet for a long moment, so that the only sound in the room comes from the lamp overhead, which is in its death throes. “There’s a lot going on for her right now,” I say gently. “You’ve known this o